


baby what goes up comes down (this i know, so here i go)

by abovethethroat



Category: Iron Man (Movies), Marvel, Marvel Cinematic Universe, Spider-Man (Tom Holland Movies), Spider-Man - All Media Types
Genre: 12 Step Programs, Adderall Abuse, Addiction, Angst, Anxiety, Drug Addiction, Drug Use, Drug Withdrawal, FENTANYL, Fainting, Gen, Hallucinations, Heroin, Hurt Peter Parker, Hurt/Comfort, Iron Dad, Mind/Mood Altering Substances, Nausea, Not Avengers: Endgame (Movie) Compliant, Not Avengers: Infinity War Part 1 (Movie) Compliant, Opiates, Opioid abuse, Opioids, Overdosing, Peter Parker Needs a Break, Peter Parker Needs a Hug, Peter Parker is a Mess, Pills, Post-Spider-Man: Homecoming, Protective Tony Stark, Recovery, Recreational Drug Use, Relapse, Relapsing, Sad Peter Parker, Substance Abuse, Suicidal Thoughts, Tony Stark Has A Heart, Tony Stark Lives, Underage Drug Use, Vomiting, heroin abuse, obviously because i want to live in the post-HC bubble forever and ever, spiderson
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2019-12-03
Updated: 2020-09-04
Packaged: 2021-02-26 04:54:59
Rating: Mature
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 6
Words: 38,626
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/21657889
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/abovethethroat/pseuds/abovethethroat
Summary: He doesn’t have an excuse as to why he does it. He hasn’t had anything to drink, so he’s more than fully capable of slipping the adderall back and saying no, of making sure he doesn’t cross the line.Because he’s kind of certain that accepting pills from people at parties isn’t the kind of extracurricular activity that super secret Spider-Man should engage in, and wherever that mysterious line is, this is most likely way, way beyond that point. But if he were to take the little yellow pill, it'd only be the one time, and only because he's curious how it reacts with his powers. Nothing more. It's not like he's going to fuck anything up.(He fucks everything up.)
Comments: 111
Kudos: 207





	1. Chapter 1

**Author's Note:**

> I've been writing this fic since early June, and I'm currently 25k words in hehe :) I'm still not done but I'm itching to post it, so I decided to cut it up into chapters.
> 
> I hope you enjoy this, and as usual, kudos and comments are appreciated <3

Peter doesn’t really want to tag along to the party. He’d rather have a movie marathon with Ned and MJ in a blanket fort than stand pressed to a wall at some rando’s house with a coke in hand for the night. There are, in fact, quite a lot of things he’d rather do. But the problem is that his friends really  _ do _ want to go. 

Well, Ned does, at least. He’s been pestering Peter about it since that party before homecoming.  _ You totally left me all alone and stranded last time, dude,  _ and  _ do you know how awkward it was to tell everyone that Spider-Man was coming only for you to blow me off and make me look like a jackass? Flash’ll never let me live that one down, Peter  _ do nothing to make him more inclined to go, but he owes him that at least. The confidence hat has been collecting dust in Ned’s closet since then and, if he’s completely honest, Peter feels bad about it. 

MJ, however, isn’t much for parties, to Peter’s relief. He isn’t really sure  _ what  _ it is she likes to do. She mostly just wants to be there so she can sketch drunken highschoolers and maybe get enough material to compile an article on teenage drinking for the school paper. Peter could be wrong though, MJ is still not the talkative kind even though they’re considered friends these days. He gets it though, and knows all too well what it’s like to have people asking questions about things that aren’t really anyone’s business but his own. He figures that she’ll tell him stuff when she wants to do so. 

Somewhat convinced to go to the stupid party as the last bell rings, Peter sighs and chucks his battered notebook into his backpack. “What’s your excitement level for tonight?” Ned asks as he, too, sweeps all of his belongings off the desk and somehow catches them all with his zipped-open bag. Peter can practically  _ feel _ the giddiness radiating off of his friend, and he only groans. Ned takes that as an answer, and continues: “It’ll be totally cool, dude! Even if it’s kind of weird to have a party on a  _ Wednesday night _ , but whatever. I’ll wear one of my flannels with the hat, because I haven’t taken it for a spin in ages, and you’ll go as  _ totally ordinary Peter and not at all Spider-man _ , we’ll hang out with the others from decathlon, and maybe even chug some beers!” 

He wrinkles his nose in disgust at that, “Did you say  _ chug some beers _ ? Seriously?” 

The invite Peter got on Facebook said  **_9:30 - bring ur own booze motherfuckers, we aint buyin it 4 u_ ** , so he fully expects there to be nothing for them to sip on but the shared off-brand coke they remembered to get on the way. And besides, it’s not like they can buy alcohol even if they wanted to, they’re only fifteen for god’s sake! The only reason he and his friends are even invited in the first place is because Flash somehow convinced his older brother to let the decathlon team be here. Peter thinks it’s probably because Flash doesn’t want to feel so small and alone at a college party, but he’d never say that. Not when he’s  _ almost  _ outlived the Penis Parker thing.

He gets a sharp elbow in the side and hisses, pulled out of his thoughts. “Dude, look!” Ned exclaims. “It’s Tessa! She’s, like, at  _ least _ a senior!” He looks to where Ned’s gaze leads his own and, sure enough, there she is. Among a group of college kids, no doubt, smoking on the villa porch. She was part of the marching band back before he quit in order to have more time to patrol, but he isn’t sure if she’s still part of it. Hell, she might’ve even graduated without him realizing. That would explain the company she’s currently keeping. It’s not like Peter’s ever really talked to her or anything. Anyway. 

Ned tries to pull Peter along with him in order to inch closer to Tessa, and  _ why on god’s green earth does he think I’d have the balls to go up to her?  _ He settles for pinching Ned’s forearm lightly, which earns him a half-hearted smack. “Why’d you do that for, you dork?” he yelps. “You know I bruise easily!”

“Sorry,” Peter says and holds up his hands. “I meant to do it gently, but, y’know. It’s a bit hard for me to gauge that these days since  _ the thing _ .” Ned makes a little affirmative noise, but still scowls playfully.

He chuckles a bit. Peter’s pretty sure they’re about to have a tickle fight in the driveway at a  _ college party _ , but MJ interrupts them as if she can tell what’s about to come if she doesn’t put a stop to it. Honestly, he doesn’t put it past her. 

“You’re both a bunch of pansies, I swear to god.” She grabs them both by the elbows, and hauls them halfway up the driveway before she lets them go, somewhat glaring at them. “I don’t know about you, but  _ I’m  _ going inside. Smell you later, losers.” 

And with that she slips past Tessa, nods her head as if to say  _ sup? _ , and disappears into the promised land.

When Peter finally sits down in the sofa on the second floor, he’s exhausted. He tried mingling awkwardly for a bit downstairs, but the music’s too loud, and he doesn’t really  _ know  _ anyone well enough. Besides, college students are all huge and scary. Even for Spider-man.

The sticky leather sofa dips on his left side, and he can barely believe it when it’s her,  _ Tessa of all people _ , sitting down beside him. He sneaks a shy glance and repeats a mantra of  _ act cool act cool act cool  _ to himself. “Um-. Hi, I-, uh, I’m Peter,” is what comes out of his mouth. As if that isn’t totally embarrassing and uncool already, he just  _ has  _ to add “...Parker. Um. Yeah. Peter Parker.” If only MJ could see this. He’s kind of glad she’s on the first floor and not here to witness this absolute decimation of his pride and nerves right now, actually, because she’d definitely do that little snort that she always does when something’s funny or pathetic, and say something like  _ Jesus Christ, Parker, just watching this exchange is killing me. And I’m not even the one doing the  _ talking _! Please put me out of my misery and string an actual sentence together, loser, I’m begging you.  _

He runs his fingers over the quite frankly disgusting material, and wishes his spider sense would dull the music blasting from downstairs through the half-shitty speakers for once, instead of making him feel the bass all the way out to his toes. He loses himself in the feeling of the chill beats from  _ Sunflower  _ reverberating through him for a moment, but refocuses on Tessa. Because it  _ is  _ actually her sitting here. 

“Hi yourself,” she says, a small smile on her lips. “You disappeared from band practice during my last months at Midtown, haven’t seen you in a while,” she continues, with a slight uptilt at the end, as if there’s a question hidden somewhere in those words. Or maybe that’s just how she talks. 

_ So she  _ has  _ graduated,  _ is his first thought. He’s almost a little sad about it, ‘cause she must be looking at him in the same way you’d look at a puppy. Because Tessa’s  _ in college _ , and Peter is just barely a sophomore. If he didn’t feel small before, he sure does now. Like puny diatomic hydrogen molecules in a sea of something massive, like  _ pg5 _ . His second thought, though, makes him more nervous than anything.  _ What if she somehow knows I’m Spider-Man? Is this some kind of set up?  _ He swallows down the sudden burst of anxiety. It seeps into every fibre of his being,  _ damn those spider powers.  _

Without thinking, he’s picking at the edge seam near his leg, and after a few more moments of silence from both of them,  _ awkward silence  _ at that, there’s a tear in the sofa cushion. He doubts it’s humanly possible for anyone but him to hear the sound of the rip over the music. He uses his  _ killer _ reflexes to cover up the damage with the inside of his knee, but she must’ve been staring at his hands from the beginning because there’s  _ no way  _ that she didn’t catch that. Peter clears his throat, tries to play it off. 

It isn’t working, because she says “Hey, I get it,” puts a warm hand over one of his, and he immediately thinks that _no, I don’t think you do. I live in constant fear of accidentally mingling with another super villain’s child, and I have to keep the borough safe from criminals and impress the one and only_ _Tony Stark on top of schoolwork. I’m also eating my way through Mister Delmar’s updated menu in my down time, which isn’t so much a pain as it is a perk, but whatever._

He can’t  _ say  _ any of that, obviously, so he just looks in her direction, sighs a bit, and says “I-. It’s not that I don’t-, that I can’t-.” A pause. Words never come easily when he’s flustered or put on the spot. But she’s not in a hurry, she doesn’t rush him to get the words out. He clears his throat, thankful for the few extra seconds he’s granted to get his brain back online, and he tries again. 

“It’s just stressful. You know?” She nods in understanding while shifting her weight around a bit. His ears catch the faint squeak of the leather as she does so. He isn’t really sure how much is socially acceptable to share about oneself to a sort-of-stranger, years older than yourself, at someone else’s party. 

“I try to make time for everything that I need to do, but it’s like the hours in a day aren’t enough. So- yeah. I’m stressed out. Um. A little bit.” He  _ is  _ telling the truth, though. At least part of it. Because he’s at school from eight to three, goes to Mister Stark’s lab twice a week after that (but usually powers through his homework until May gets home from work around six), grabs a sub at Delmar’s bodega when there’s loose change to spare, and then he’s the city’s favorite masked spider until curfew at 10:30. 

9:30 if it’s a school night, which is, honestly, kind of ridiculous in Peter’s opinion. Because he’s out there saving the world, and his aunt wants him to have a  _ bedtime _ ? He’s learned the hard way that patrolling past curfew only brings a search party á la Mister Stark and an upset May, so he tries not to push it. He doesn’t want to go through that embarrassing ordeal again. 

Tessa digs around in her pocket. She doesn’t immediately say what it is, but there’s a plastic pouch in her hand, containing little yellow pills. Peter’s senses nag at him, _oh man, this is dangerous!_ He thinks of the statistics they showed in class, of how many people fall victim to addiction every year in the US alone, and of how most of them just wanted to have a little fun. He thinks of Mister Stark and of all the tabloids he saw with that name growing up, practically synonymous with the a-word. Tessa must sense Peter’s hesitation, because she brings the pouch up between their faces, shakes it a bit, and gives off a little laugh.

“Relax, okay. Jeez, you’re so tense. Like, almost annoyingly tense.  _ Almost _ . But-, hear me out. School’s tough, and I’m thinking you could use some more time to get shit done.” 

He isn’t quite sure what that means. “Time?” he asks. “What  _ about  _ time? I’m not too sure taking drugs will exactly help my time management and get me into MIT on a scholarship.” He wrinkles his forehead and pokes at the tear in the cushion again. It’s a bit rough to the touch around the edges, where it’s frayed. Messy.  _ Kind of like the sleep schedule I’ve got going on lately,  _ he thinks with a hint of annoyance, aimed at himself, and laughs. 

He digs around with his nails a little bit more, careful not to damage the material too much. He thinks there’s probably a parallel between the state of the stupid cushion and his difficulty getting enough sleep somewhere in there, but he promptly decides that  _ that’s  _ for unpacking another time. Maybe. If he survives tonight, that is. Tessa gives him a look. 

“It isn’t  _ drugs _ , stupid, it’s only addy. It’ll pick you up when you need it and make you more alert and efficient. Plus,” she adds, “you’ll need less sleep when you’re on it. Like an enhanced caffeine pill.  _ God  _ knows you need it, you’re radiating exhaustion from a mile away, I swear. Dude, trust me. It’s a win-win!”

She fishes around with her fingers for a tablet, the plastic crinkles a bit, and Peter’s suddenly got one little yellow pill placed in the palm of his hand. There’s no one he wants to trust less than Tessa right now. Like, when a stranger offers you something at a party, isn’t that the moment you  _ shouldn’t  _ be a trusting person? That one Captain America PSA on peer pressure echoes around somewhere at the back of his mind, distantly.

He can feel his pulse quickening, and he’s thanking his lucky star that he only has to wear the vital-tracking smart watch when he’s out-of-suit the times Mister Stark has reason to believe his vitals could need extra monitoring, like after a mission or the occasional injury on patrol. Because Peter’s pretty sure he’d have a tough time explaining his heart rate spiking like this past 11 at night  _ as a civilian _ . May knows where he is, but he never told her there’d be older kids around. Or about the excessive amount of alcohol. Or strangers offering  _ pills.  _ To be fair, Peter  _ himself _ didn’t know about the pill part until this exact moment.

Peter can tell that his poor heart has no plans on slowing down to a reasonable pace, quite the  _ opposite _ , and he’s pretty sure Mister Stark would think he’s rubbing one out if he could see his vitals right now.  _ Ugh.  _ He shudders at the thought and the instant embarrassment that follows. It’s not like he  _ doesn’t  _ like to feel good, because he does. He just doesn’t want his  _ mentor  _ to see the data on it. That’s all. 

He runs his fingers over the pill, and feels the groove in the middle out with his thumb. As if somehow, telepathically, knowing that Peter is out of his depth, Ned waltzes around the corner. “Hey, man!” 

Tessa quickly hides the plastic pouch in between her palms when he approaches, and Peter pockets his lone pill. He doesn’t have an excuse as to why he does it. He hasn’t had anything to drink, so he’s  _ more  _ than fully capable of slipping the adderall back to Tessa and saying no, of making sure he doesn’t cross the line. Because he’s kind of certain that accepting pills from people at parties  _ isn’t  _ the kind of extracurricular activity that  _ super secret Spider-Man  _ should engage in, and wherever that mysterious line is, this is most likely way,  _ way  _ beyond that point.

But he’s honestly kind of curious to know if what she claims is true, if there’s a chance he could get extra efficient without any of the extra effort. He knows he’s a good student already.  _ But I’ve got to be  _ great  _ in order to get where I want _ , his mind supplies as Ned babbles on: “The bathroom line was  _ crazy  _ long, like you wouldn’t believe! I think I saw two chicks exit after making out in there for, like, at  _ least  _ fifteen minutes, which is insane. Okay, not that I wasn’t expecting to see stuff like that at a party, but still. They must have raging lady-boners by now, I’m getting all worked up about it and-, wait, why’re you two hidden away up here?” 

He looks between them while  _ finally  _ taking a breath, and Peter wipes his clammy palms on his jeans. Ned sits down a bit  _ too  _ close to him, and Peter thinks he probably feels out of place as well. “Hang on...do you guys know each other? I mean, like,  _ know- _ know each other?” he blurts out. “‘Cause if you do, I’m extremely offended that you haven’t  _ told _ me, dude.” 

Peter chuckles a bit, trying to ignore the way he imagines feeling the little pill burning a hole through his denim pocket, and decides that he has to worm his way out of this conversation somehow,  _ right now _ , because he doesn’t want to accidentally spill the beans to Ned and get Tessa in trouble for dealing at a party.  _ Think of something, genius. I can’t put her in hot water just because I’m nervous. _

“Shit,” he exclaims, and tries his best to make it sound genuine. “May said she wanted me home before 11:30!” Standing up, he sneaks a glance at Tessa, who seems to get his drift.

“At this time of night you’ll be lucky if you get back to Queens from here within an hour,” she adds, probably exaggerating, but either way he’s thankful. He gives a quick wave to her as a goodbye, and she slips a wrinkled piece of paper into his back pocket when Ned’s looking away. He, once again, feels kind of guilty for messing with Ned’s party plans. He wonders if the inability to stay the normal amount of time at parties is some sort of weird super power he’s acquired, from the spider bite maybe? 

They take the stairs to the floor below, and spot MJ sitting on one of the kitchen counters, surrounded by bottles and cans that people have shoved to the side. Some sort of break dancing competition seems to be going on, and she’s fevently sketching away with lead smudges covering her hands. She doesn’t look  _ amused _ , per se, but not bored to death either. Peter takes this as a good sign, because her having an  _ alright-ish  _ time sure is rare, especially in a social setting. 

“Hey losers,” she greets them as they lean against the counter. Peter gives her the same  _ I am really really late and I am really really going to get in trouble if we don’t leave pronto _ rundown, and she starts putting her things away. “Make out with any hot chicks yet, or are you still as socially inept as when we arrived?” she quips.

“We are  _ not _ !” Ned objects. “Peter was  _ totally  _ hitting it off with that Tess, Tessa..? Wasn’t her name-, nevermind, anyway, the girl from outside! Like, there was  _ definitely  _ some intense eye contact when I got there and I’ll disown you, Peter, if you mess up this opportunity. Like,  _ for real.  _ And when you get married I expect to be the best man, just saying.”

MJ makes a noise that loosely translates to  _ I am incredibly disturbed right now _ , and follows that up with “If you’re done planning his wedding, which, for the record, is never going to happen because he’s too much of a dweeb to _ ever  _ speak to her again, can we go already? I’m starting to worry that these guys overestimating their ability to dance are going to projectile vomit all over me.”

The subway ride back to Queens is mostly silent on Peter’s part. MJ is going on about the moral repercussions of serving alcohol to people who are clearly underage, and how she  _ can’t believe  _ that the cops hadn’t showed up at the house before they left, with how rowdy it was getting. 

“Flash’s brother sure is a major asshole,” she states. “At 23 you’d think people would be adult enough to not endanger literal  _ children  _ and committing a misdemeanor, but I guess he didn’t get the memo.” She rolls her eyes, and watches the subway tiles float by for a moment. “Whatever. I’m not even sixteen yet, so what do  _ I  _ know.”

Peter zones out for a bit, and lets his eyes rest on the ad space above MJ’s seat.  _ Compass Health Group _ , it reads in big, blue letters.  _ Navigating the road from addiction to recovery.  _ Huh. If he weren’t so nervous about the yellow pill in his possession, he’d almost find this coincidence kind of funny. Besides, it’s not like he’s actually going to  _ take  _ it. The pill, that is. 

_ I’ll flush it down the toilet when I get home,  _ he promises quietly to no one but himself. He mulls over it for a bit. Flushing it is, obviously, the right thing to do. The sane thing to do. And also what he’s definitely  _ going  _ to do.  _ I don’t need adderall to excel, I’m already one of the top students in my grade.  _ Yeah. There isn’t even really a problem to speak of. 

Sure, he’d rather spend all this time swinging between buildings and tinkering with beakers and nanotech at the lab, but as aunt May often reminds him, school comes first. And that means having to prioritize studying for next week’s algebra quiz before even  _ thinking  _ about checking why the web fluid’s been spraying all over the place, not coming out in concentrated bursts as usual  _ (maybe the problem isn’t with the ratio of the formula at all, but with the cannisters?) _ , let alone putting on the suit. If there’s even the possibility of getting newly assigned homework done that same day during lunch, he could free up extra time after school to be Spider-Man. 

He suddenly decides, somewhere between Steinway Street and Northern Boulevard, that he’s going to try it.  _ Just once, that’s all.  _ It’s probably not even going to be as amazing as Tessa made it out to be, most likely lame. Peter almost wishes all the hype is for nothing, that he’ll be let down. Because what if it’s  _ amazing _ ? Then what? He’s only got the one pill.

He rubs at his temples and desperately wants to lay down in his own bed. The subway really isn’t the place to have an internal dialogue about this topic, especially not when MJ is  _ right there  _ and has full view of his face all scrunched up in concentration, illuminated by the rows of lights above their heads. MJ might not do an excessive amount of talking, but she watches, and she  _ sees  _ everything. 

She knew about Peter’s super powers and parkouring around the city before they’d even spoken that time in the cafeteria, and he still doesn’t know what it was that gave him away. She refuses to give up the details even though Peter’s been asking repeatedly, only giving a smug smile in return and saying something like  _ a magician can’t give up their secrets, Peter. _

“You cool?” she asks with a frown. She’s looking at him. Staring. Things along the lines of _crap crap crap I haven’t even done_ _anything yet_ , and _if I’m sweating like a pig just thinking about the damn pill, what’ll it be like when I’m on it?_ run through his mind as he scrapes a nail along the train seat. _What’s with me and fidgeting with furniture today?_

“Yeah,” he croaks out actively going for ‘pathetic’, for once. “I took a shot of vodka from someone earlier, probably shouldn’t have.” It’s a lie, obviously, but how would she know? She’s been at the other end of the party all night, so she can’t call him out on it. She only cocks her head to the side and raises an eyebrow, as if to say  _ really, Peter?  _ “I, uh, I haven’t had any alcohol since the bite,” leaves out the  _ haven’t actually had a single drink in my life  _ part, “and I’m starting to think that my spidey metabolism’s affecting this, too.” 

He decides that he’s got to act a little wobbly to truly sell this lie and make both Ned and MJ think he’s just on this side of _irresponsible_ due to his alledged inebriation, instead of _a downright fucking moron_ who’s actually contemplating mixing uppers with his morning smoothie. Yes. That’s the plan.

So, for this reason, he makes a little gagging sound and bends his torso down as far to his knees as he deems necessary. “‘M going to be sick, sh-,  _ ugh. _ ” He swallows three times in quick succession, and is amazed at the fact that something so simple has both MJ and Ned scrambling through their belongings, just  _ praying  _ to find something that’ll hold his guts before he spews them all over the carriage floor. 

He decides to have mercy on them, and removes the hand he’s clutched in front of his mouth to speak slowly, with caution. “I think I’m fine, yeah, I’ll-, I’m going to make it home. I think.” It’s not like he  _ actually  _ needs to puke. Ned looks like he’s just narrowly escaped death.

“Oh thank god,” he exclaims. “For a second there I really thought you were going to projectile vomit all over MJ, and she’d probably bite my fingers off if I tried to wipe her down.” Peter, once again, feels a bit guilty for stressing Ned out while on the way home from something that’s meant to be an apology for doing it  _ previously.  _ But then again, telling him about what Tessa gave him would give Ned a heart attack, so he considers his actions totally justified. MJ gets off a few stations before they do, with a small wave as she puts in her headphones and steps out through the doors.

The rest of the train ride back to the borough, he keeps his head down and eyes closed. Whenever there’s a sharp turn and he’s jolted to the side, he makes sure to groan a bit. “I’m sorry we couldn’t stay longer, I really wanted you to have fun tonight, especially after last time.” And he  _ did _ , it’s just that sometimes things get too loud, too bright, too  _ intense _ after the spider bite. 

So in a situation where a non-enhanced person would feel anxious, Peter is usually closer to  _ blind panic  _ than he’d like to admit. He’s touched briefly on this during training with Mister Stark, who told him to reign it in unless there’s actual danger. That’s easier said than done, though, when  _ apart from everything else _ , you’re also a teenager going through puberty with hormone levels through the roof. 

“Nah, don’t worry about it, man,” Ned says softly as he helps Peter stand up once they’re about to get off at their stop. “Okay, so I admit that I over-hyped the whole party thing a bit during class today. I am so ready to change out of this,” he motions to his outfit, “and into my Star Wars hoodie. For real though, why does being an adult have to mean wearing stupid ties and walking around looking like a doofus with a stick up your butt?  _ I  _ don’t want to wear a tie when I’m older. Could you imagine? Mister Harrington would probably be proud, though. I’d be all like, ‘hurr-durr, fetch me those reports, intern! And get me a scalding black coffee! Stat! Time is money!’ Ew. And who even  _ drinks  _ that shit?”

Peter laughs at that, because that’s such a  _ Ned monologue _ . The long rambling has allowed them to get all the way to 43rd Street before he grows silent again, and they settle for doing their special handshake as their way of saying good night. Sometimes, Peter imagines all the little things he’s going to miss when he goes away to MIT. He’s trying to save a mental snapshot every time there’s a  _ moment _ , but he knows that even those memories will get fuzzy with time. 

That, right there, is part of the reason he’s even considering taking the pill. Every second he isn’t out on the streets fighting crooks or building LEGOs with Ned is another second of his life just ticking away, a moment when he could have been  _ better.  _ Ever since uncle Ben’s passing, then reinforced by the scolding after the ferry incident, he’s been chasing the version of himself that makes the right choices, the one that’s the better friend and stronger super hero, the one that doesn’t let Mister Stark down with dropping grades.  _ I need to be bigger, braver, better.  _

As Peter unlocks the front door and steps inside his and May’s apartment at 11:43, the lights are on and she’s snoring gently on the sofa.  _ Trust her to still wait up for me, just like old times,  _ he thinks to himself and smiles. He grabs one of the blankets strewn over an arm chair and drapes it over his aunt’s sleeping form. It would probably be nice for her back if he woke her up and made her sleep in her actual  _ bed _ , but he doesn’t want to talk to her right now. It’s a bit selfish, he knows that. But his aunt has a knack for picking up when he’s even remotely stressed. He loves her for it, because that just shows him how much she  _ cares _ . He just doesn’t want to be scrutinized right now.

Instead, he tip-toes into his bedroom and shuts the door gently. Stashing pills isn’t exactly his area of expertise, but since May isn’t in the habit of snooping around Peter’s room other than when she’s doing the laundry and looking for stray socks, he figures it’ll be alright if he just puts it on the bedside table and hides it carefully under a Star Wars figurine.  _ This Porg should do. _ He’s got plenty of those lined up on the shelf above his desk and scattered around the room, so his aunt will never think twice about its placement.  _ Perfect.  _

He can feel the adrenaline from before wearing off, leaving him tired and ready to doze off. He decides that showering is future Peter’s problem, and strips out of his jeans and shirt in favor of getting into his cartoon PJs. People his age are always so obsessed with seeming cool and adult, and he is infinitely grateful that he’s got a buddy that’s as into comics and science as he is.  _ If I weren’t friends with Ned I’d be such a lonely nerd,  _ he muses. Plus, Ned’s just as into the Iron Man sweat pants as Peter is, so he hasn’t really felt embarrassed or childish at any point in time. 

Peter’s always had a hard time falling asleep,  _ especially  _ after gaining his powers, and finds that soothing white noise sometimes helps. He reaches for the mask, asks Karen to play the track he always listens to through his phone speakers (at 3 percent, because  _ super hearing _ ) and puts it back where he got it from, gently.  _ This is million dollar tech, after all.  _ He knows that Mister Stark has a practically infinite supply of money and that the suit doesn’t really get any tears unless he’s fighting, but he’d feel worse if the suit got damaged because he  _ snagged it _ than if a bullet ripped through it. 

“Not today, satan,” he mumbles to himself, and turns out the light.


	2. Chapter 2

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Things are beginning to kick off :D I'm still so excited to be posting this aaaaaaa

After getting dressed and going to the bathroom that following morning, Peter wastes no time.  _ Christ, I’m nervous,  _ he thinks as he enters the kitchen, hunting for smoothie ingredients. May has a later shift today, so she’s probably still asleep. He’s got to be extra careful.  _ Why am I doing this again?  _ he ponders.  _ Oh right, it’s ‘cause I don’t want to fall behind.  _ It’s not that he’s afraid of failure per se, he just doesn’t want to be any less than people expect him to be. This pill thing might not even work, because he’s seen that online post about some kid having undiagnosed ADHD and accidentally paying way too much money to just become  _ stable.  _

He peels a banana and breaks it in half before dropping it into the electric mixer, then adds yoghurt and a splash of orange juice to top it off before putting the lid on. Sure, he’d love some raspberries in there and maybe some mango, but that’s not really high on the grocery list when strapped for cash.  _ That’s a bit of a shame. _ He turns the blender on, to the lowest pulse setting that’s available, and listens to make sure May’s still sound asleep. Not that him making a smoothie before school is in any way  _ suspicious,  _ but he’d rather not have to possibly lie to her face before anything’s even happened. About  _ anything.  _ Because there’ll probably be lots of lying to do later, and he’s already feeling bad about it. 

So with this in mind, he deems the banana chunks small enough to be consumed as part of the drink, turns off the mixer, and pours it into a tall glass. He grabs a spoon and ventures back into his bedroom.  _ Here comes the scary part of actually mixing in the adderall...here we go.  _ One side of the pill has  _ AD  _ pressed into it, while the flip side has the numbers  _ 3 0  _ divided by a deep score. Huh. Peter picks up the Porg and takes a deep breath, before crushing the pill into a yellowish powder. It goes flying off a bit to the sides, and he grabs a sheet from last week’s AP chem class to scrape it together, forming a neat little pile in the middle of the plastic surface. He’s got oddly steady hands for handling  _ drugs,  _ and manages to pour the fine dust into the glass. He mixes the thick concoction a bit, but not too thoroughly.  _ It’s all going down the hatch, anyway.  _

Steeling himself, he takes a deep breath. There’s nothing scary about drinking a smoothie. At all.  _ Well, unless you’re lactose intolerant because  _ that’d  _ be pretty scary,  _ he jokes to no one but himself, mostly to calm his nerves. But just  _ knowing  _ that amphetamine salts are floating around in there as little tiny specks makes his heart rate go up a bit.  _ It’s now or never.  _ He lifts the cold glass to his lips and downs the entire thing in record time. There. No going back now. 

Wiping off some stray smoothie from the side of his mouth onto the sleeve of his shirt, Peter realizes that he doesn’t actually know how long it will take until this affects him.  _ Maybe should’ve looked it up before I drank that,  _ he realizes.  _ Google will tell me and then I’ll just divide that by two or something, easy peasy. And maybe hurry to school if I don’t want to be  _ high _ or whatever on the train. _

He picks up his backpack and leaves the used glass in the sink on his way to the front door. He pops one earbud in while jogging down the stairwell, working on untangling the cord at the same time. That’s another perk of the spider bite; he never has to worry about missing a step when taking the stairs, even if his mind is elsewhere.  _ No mini heart attacks for this spider.  _ By the time he’s reached the bottom floor and popped in the other earbud, he gets a text from Ned saying he’s almost outside the building.

_ ned:  _ **_sorr y., i ovwrslept but im omw_ **

_ peter-man:  _ **_hahah its ok_ **

_ peter-man:  _ **_meet me @ lowery and dont u dARE be late,,,,,, im not gettign detention bc of u again man_ **

He taps out a reply, then quickly adds another while walking to the sunway station. While having his phone out of his pocket, Peter switches the browser to incognito mode and selects the search bar. He remembers reading the _AD 30_ pressed into the pill before pulverizing it earlier, and quickly finds out that he’s got the immediate release version of adderall in his system, _whatever that means,_ and 30 milligrams worth of it. Some more swiping and tapping on the phone screen later, it tells him that the effects usually kick in after about thirty minutes up to an hour, and lasts between four and six hours. Okay, _cool._ So that means his super powered body might allow for two, maybe two and a half hours of potential focus. If he’s lucky, _maybe_ three _._

At this point he can’t really tell if he’s hoping for some laser focus for a couple of hours, or for nothing to happen at all.  _ It  _ is  _ kind of scary putting central nervous system stimulants into the body,  _ he knows,  _ but it’d also be sweet to not have to spend as much time worrying about grades.  _ They’re all straight As, sure, but he knows that Flash is considering the MIT scholarship as well, and he’s about to be  _ real competition  _ if Peter doesn’t step up his game a few notches.  _ Soon.  _

“Hey dude!” Ned hollers as Peter makes his way onto the train platform.  _ Dear god, what if I get all loopy on the train? Why didn’t I just save the pill and take it in the school bathroom before first period? I’m so stupid.  _ He’s realizing the flaws in his plan for the effects to go unnoticed already, and hopes that Ned’ll be too tired to tell if he starts acting strange.  _ I sure am a rookie  _ goes through his head as the two of them step onto the train. Getting subway seats on a Thursday morning is nothing short of a miracle, frankly, and Peter thanks the world for small mercies.

“I, uh, finished my calc homework last night,” Peter says to fill the silence. Well. It’s not  _ silent  _ silent, because when is it ever on the subway, with people speaking on their phones and the wheels grating against the tracks at every turn. “What did you get for number seven? I tried solving it a few different ways but I don’t think it adds up.” It’s a lie. He’s had it sitting finished on his desk for almost a week, and knows exactly what the correct answer is. It wasn’t that hard, really, but Ned doesn’t need to know that.

“Ah, shit man,” Ned replies, shaking his head. “I don’t even  _ know,  _ like, I know we’re supposed to be smart and stuff, but I kind of struggled and gave up after the first problem. I was hoping you could help me before class.” He feels a bit bad about lying about having the correct answer and not helping his friend out, but maybe he’ll pretend to have a eureka moment later. Or something. Feeling bad about lying seems to be a recurring thing since last night,  _ ugh. _

It’s twenty minutes later, when they’re shoving binders and books into their lockers in the hallway, that Peter starts to feel it. He isn’t sure what  _ it  _ is just yet, but there’s a thrumming under the surface that’s slowly growing. That Tessa girl’s voice saying it’s like an enhanced caffeine pill  _ (“god knows you need it”)  _ echoes in his brain. He’s starting to think that yeah, she’s right. Except it’s way more effective than coffee’ll ever be. Ned is going on about the new  _ Spider Crawler  _ LEGO set as they’re getting ready for their first class of the day, and Peter is going over the updated web formula while listening half-heartedly. 

“-and I’m not saying that they’re favoring Iron Man over you, but his set has over 500 pieces while yours only has, like,  _ 400 _ ! And that includes a beige dude _ and _ that Vulture guy! If that’s not arachnid discrimination I don’t know what is.” Peter tunes back in midway through one of Ned’s sentences, and chimes in with a  _ huh  _ or a  _ mhmm  _ when appropriate. 

“Well Mister Stark  _ does  _ have a whole bunch of suits, though, and I only have the one.”  _ It would be awesome to have a crawler though,  _ he thinks. And with his mind going into addy-induced overdrive, he opens another mental tab and switches back and forth between rough machine blueprints and the web formula.  _ If I want the hypothetical crawler to shoot webs then I could fit it with wider nozzles and larger canisters, that could allow for a higher viscosity plus longer hold.  _ He makes a mental note to ask about the possibility of a vehicle when he gets to the compound later, but he’s got a suspicion that the answer’s going to be a quick no.

He sits down in his usual seat in the chem classroom, and sneakily checks that his usual web-crafting supplies are still in the drawer underneath the desk. They are. The teacher begins today’s lecture on Kinetic theory, and Peter quietly makes an extra large batch of web fluid while simultaneously taking detailed notes.  _ A batch three times the regular size and with the same ratio should last me over the upcoming break and then some.  _ He swiftly recalls the exact amounts needed, and triples everything. He doesn’t really  _ need  _ to mix the fluid under the desk at school anymore, since he’s got access to the compound labs a few times a week and all that, but it sends a little thrill through him knowing that he’s working on super-secret stuff out in the open, where  _ anyone could see. _

Ned looks at him like he might be growing a second head,  _ but in a good way,  _ and mumbles something about Peter having more energy that he’s seen in a while. Peter only smiles when he’s not looking, and credits it to getting extra sleep. Yep.  _ Definitely nothing else.  _ Raising his hand and answering a question about elastic collision correctly earns him a sour glare from Flash, and he’s definitely got to thank Tessa The Party Girl (™) later, if he somehow gets hold of her number. Ah, who’s he kidding? He’ll either sniff it out on his own or, if he’s feeling particularly brave, ask Ned to find it in a string of code somewhere.

Impatient, he pulls out his phone under the desk, opening Facebook.  _ There’s got to be someone I know that has her number,  _ he thinks.  _ Apart from Flash, of course.  _ He just  _ really  _ wants to tell her thanks for giving him some much needed focus. Really. That’s all. And if she were to give him another pill for whatever reason then he’d not be opposed to accepting it, but he isn’t up for analyzing that thought at the moment. With all his current assignments done and more than a quarter of the lesson left, he needs something to do. He’s tapping an index finger against the edge of the desk, and one sneaker skids back and forth over the floor. That little bubble of energy is still growing, and he feels  _ euphoric.  _

He’s in the middle of a thought that goes something like  _ if this is the kind of energy adderall gives me when I’m studying, imagine what it’d do on patrol  _ when he finds her, one of a few Tessas that seem to be friends of friends, and  _ of course  _ her last name is Turner. If he’s PP then it’s only right that she’s TT.  _ Jackpot.  _ He sends her a friend request without hesitating, which, if he’s honest, probably has at least a little bit to do with the addy. In his usual state he’d mull it over for a bit and maybe close the app a few times before doing it and then spending  _ way  _ too much time feeling anxious about it. But at the moment he feels right as rain, and the giddiness grows along with the bubble as she accepts the request right before the class ends, and he’s tapping on the message symbol as he trails after Ned out into the hallway. 

_ Tessa Turner:  _ **_Hi there stranger :)_ **

_ Peter Parker:  _ **_hi yourself haha_ **

_ Tessa Turner:  _ **_I was expecting to hear from you but I’m surprised it was so quick :)_ **

_ Peter Parker:  _ **_really? how come? did u underestimate my shyness at the party or,,,, bc thats what im like all the time sadly l ol_ **

_ Peter Parker:  _ **_like im literally scared to talk to anyone i dont know_ **

_ Tessa Turner:  _ **_You claim to be shy yet you send a friend request on facebook after meeting me once. So what’s that about? :)_ **

_ Peter Parker:  _ **_hah yea funny story,, i think thats the adderall talkin if im honest. im feeling so hapyp rn and thought saying thabks for the extra focus was a good idea_ **

_ Peter Parker:  _ **_oops sorry for the typos_ **

_ Tessa Turner:  _ **_Oh so you’re actually taking my advice ;) I hope your classes are going well, then. Are you sure you’re just saying thank you, or do you want me to hook you up with some more as well?_ **

_ Peter Parker:  _ **_oh its ok im good, but thanks anyway_ **

_ Tessa Turner:  _ **_Whatever you say, Parker… When you’re ready you know how to find me ;)_ **

Peter locks his phone and shoves it back into his pocket. She seems adamant that he’ll get in touch to get quote-unquote _ hooked up,  _ but that’s unlikely. Highly.  _ This has been a fun experiment, but I’m not doing this again,  _ he vows. Well, shit, he actually  _ has  _ to ask her for another pill, ‘cause he’s got to test out his hypothesis as Spider-man, too, of course.  _ As a scientist it’d be irresponsible to  _ not  _ see how it blends with my powers when I’m using them to their full extent.  _ Nothing bad’s happened yet, so how dangerous can it be? Well, apart from the  _ obvious  _ dangers of ingesting uppers. 

With classes passing by quickly now that he’s extra focused and in the zone, lunch is fast approaching, and the effect is waning more and more every minute. Yesterday he didn’t think he’d be one to admit (or even  _ think of) _ something like this, but he misses the bubble of euphoria and focus. It’s not even gone yet, and he’s already fantasizing about doing backflips over New York City while a bit high. Literally  _ and  _ figuratively. He snickers to himself,  _ I’m so funny.  _

He counts backwards;  _ it peaked right at the start of English, so that means it builds for an hour and a half and then dips back down to baseline again after that same amount of time.  _ If he plans his route on patrol carefully, he could time it so that the extra bundle of energy helps him cover a larger area of Queens and lower Manhattan during the time he’s allowed to be out swinging. 

When the school day draws to a close, the high is long gone. Peter kind of wishes he’d asked Tessa for another pill while still feeling confident in his ability to not be an absolute  _ dork,  _ but whatever. He knows exactly how it’s going to go; she’s going to be all “I told you so” and he’s going to flounder for a bit, before attempting to explain how it’s  _ actually for science  _ without outing himself as Queens’ masked hero. Maybe he can pretend to have a  _ normal  _ rare gene that he wants to test it out on, because that isn’t too far from the truth. That sort of makes him sound like a mutant, which, he definitely is  _ not,  _ thank you very much. He’s not quite sure just how similar or dissimilar the x gene is compared to himself now that there’s spider DNA mixed with his own, but that rabbit hole is for another day. Yep. He thinks he can feel a headache coming on just from thinking about it, so he files that train of thought away somewhere for later.  _ Maybe Mister Stark and Doctor Banner could help me do some tests to see just how this thing works?  _

Peter waves Ned goodbye for the day and heads to the library. Some students are bound to be there still since it’s barely past three, but he’s sure there will be an empty spot for him somewhere in a corner. For once, he won’t be using Midtown’s open wifi. Every time he connects to the network, a splash screen reminds him that all students’ online activity is monitored accordingly, even if the browser is set to incognito mode. And that’s something he definitely doesn’t want to risk. So he relies on 4G, reopening the message app.

_ Peter Parker:  _ **_uh hi again tessa_ **

_ Peter Parker:  _ **_its me_ **

_ Peter Parker:  _ **_peter_ **

_ Peter Parker:  _ **_crap ofc u know that bc my name pops up hahahah im so awkward_ **

_ Tessa Turner:  _ **_I’m guessing you aren’t high anymore since you’re back to being your awkward self? ;)_ **

_ Peter Parker:  _ **_y ep_ **

_ Tessa Turner:  _ **_So_ **

_ Peter Parker:  _ **_so? wdym_ **

_ Tessa Turner:  _ **_I mean as in “how long is it going to take before this fucker stops being a total pussy and asks me for more pills”? It’s obviously what you’re after, Parker ;)_ **

_ Peter Parker:  _ **_im sorry for being slow,,,, yEah i wanna buy_ **

_ Peter Parker:  _ **_i just need one more bc i wanna test it out at the gym this weekend_ **

_ Tessa Turner:  _ **_Dude I’m messing with you, of course I’m not annoyed! :) I don’t sell them as singles, though. It’s gotta be a bag of five / ten / fifteen and so on, sorry._ **

He pauses at that, because he isn’t expecting that answer. He looks around the library to ensure than no one’s looking his way, he’s got to look casual if someone does catch a glimpse. _A bag of five or more? Well._ The plan would be to take one, hang on for the ride, and then bury the four leftover pills deep in some drawer until the end of time. But then again, it’s probably not cheap, and the more you buy, the better the price, right? That’s how it works with Mars bars at 7/11, and that can’t be an _isolated_ thing, surely.

_ Peter Parker:  _ **_alright but whats the price for the diff amounts then_ **

_ Tessa Turner:  _ **_Oh so now you’ve suddenly got the balls to talk money, I see how it is. Haha, five of them cost twenty bucks, ten cost thirty five and twenty pills cost seventy._ **

_ Peter Parker:  _ **_so the more i buy the better the price_ **

_ Tessa Turner:  _ **_Yes! I’d suggest going with ten since you’re just starting out. That way you have some extra stashed for the week you’re on break (yes I checked your class schedule and no I’m not a creep) and won’t have to hit me up again in just a few days._ **

_ Peter Parker:  _ **_haha u looked me up did u? im flattered lol_ **

_ Peter Parker:  _ **_but also its not like that, the pills will last for a loooong time if i even take them all_ **

_ Tessa Turner:  _ **_Mhm suuuure it’s not “like that” ;) I’m actually free in a bit and I’m in the area, so Iet’s meet up at say 4:30? You know where Hard Rock cafe is on 43rd Street right? Meet me at that corner._ **

_ Peter Parker:  _ **_ok_ **

_ Peter Parker:  _ **_are there any like guidelines to follow btw and shouldnt we be doin this in like a dark alleyway or somethin g_ **

_ Tessa Turner:  _ **_Bring thirty five bucks in cash and then we’ll just do a handshake and I’ll slip the bag to you. It’s not that difficult, haha :)_ **

_ Peter Parker:  _ **_um ok, ill see you then i guess_ **

_ Tessa Turner:  _ **_Don’t be late! :))_ **

_ Tessa Turner:  _ **_Oh and also…_ **

_ [ _ @Tessa Turner _ has changed their chat display name to  _ Pessa Purner _ ] _

_ [ _ @Pessa Purner _ has changed your chat display name to  _ Teter Tarker _ ] _

_ Pessa Purner:  _ **_It’s ridiculous so of course I’m doing that!!!!_ **

And with that, Tessa goes offline before he can object to their new display names, leaving him to count down the time until their covert meeting.  _ Am I really about to buy adderall? And more than  _ one _ pill, as well?  _ Peter kind of feels like he should think about this a little more before cashing out, but he also kind of doesn’t want to. He likes the feeling of doing something he knows he shouldn’t, something forbidden. Peter is so used to always playing by the rules,  _ I deserve to be a little reckless once in a while as Spider-man, too, right? As long as I don’t cause any citizens harm, it’s fine.  _

He does know that if he were to ask literally  _ anyone else  _ for their opinion, they wouldn’t agree in the slightest. If May knew he’s spent part of the day high, he’d never hear the end of it. He doesn’t want to imagine the lectures about the assorted dangers or the statistics on overdoses in the area. He is enhanced, though, so he’d most likely experience few of the drawbacks during regular recreational use of addy. And besides, the only reason he’s even on his way to buy more product is to study the effects  _ one more time. _ Peter thinks back to the  _ Compass Health Group  _ ad on the train; he knows he’s not in any danger of becoming an addict, of somehow getting caught up in chasing the floaty feeling.  _ There is no need to worry. _

He sighs and checks the time. It’s just past 4pm, so if he leaves now and walks slowly he might not arrive too early. A teenager standing alone at a street corner looking antsy could seem a bit sketchy, so after a minute on foot he decides to pop into the Starbucks nearby to kill some time.  _ If the takeaway mug somehow makes this whole  _ buying pills  _ deal more difficult, then that’s just my luck,  _ he thinks, right before ordering a tall macchiato and praying they don’t mess up his ridiculously simple name in the process. A barista mucked it up once, dubbing him  _ Pedur.  _ In the barista’s defense, he didn’t seem to know much English at all, so it was at least a bit understandable. This time he has better luck, and  _ Peter :)  _ is written in curly letters on the side of the paper mug. 

He crosses the street one last time, nervously gulping down some of the scalding beverage, before leaning against the dark reflective wall under the gigantic Hard Rock sign. A street vendor is selling varieties of hot dogs and cheese pretzels nearby.  _ Maybe I should have bought a snack. Probably.  _ He briefly considers getting something from the vendor, but catches sight of Tessa in the hoards of people, making her way towards him at a quick pace. She’s  _ determined.  _ He swallows as she approaches.  _ Gulp.  _ He squeezes the paper cup a bit, probably more than he  _ should,  _ as she stops in front of him with a smile that feels out of place, as if they’re old friends rather than doing illicit business in a place where anyone walking by could be a cop.

“Hey,  _ Doug,  _ I can’t believe it’s you! I haven’t seen you in ages, how’s everything going?” Tessa exclaims, emphasis on the fake name, and holds out her hand. He remembers what she told him earlier,  _ “we’ll just do a handshake and I’ll slip the bag to you”,  _ and grasps her right hand in his own. But before he gets the chance to take the little plastic pouch from her, Tessa brings her other arm around him and squeezes around him in a way that’s  _ definitely inappropriate  _ when considering the very short time they’ve known of each other’s existence. 

Peter remembers that he should make an effort to sell this lie if anyone happens to be on the lookout, and mentally scrambles for a name,  _ any name.  _ “Yeah, uh,  _ Patricia,  _ I’ve really missed you too!” He gets ready for her to give him a kick or something, because he really must be on his last brain cell if Patricia’s the best he could do. Oh well, it’s too late now. He goes on; “The farm out in New Jersey is doing well despite that hiccup last season. Uh. You-, eh, you should bring the family out to visit, I’m sure they’d love that.” While rambling on about nothing like a mad man, he grabs the pills between their torsos, and slips them into his pocket while trying not to splash hot coffee all over them both. 

Tessa replies, making up more details about the imaginary farm with fake enthusiasm as they pull apart. He doesn’t really listen though, his mind more occupied with the fact that  _ he’s got ten yellow pills in his pocket right now.  _ That’s insane.  _ Really  _ insane. And they’re right on the street as well! Even though he spends time fighting crime at night, this feels like a completely different brand of danger. He’s got the sense of this being  _ more,  _ somehow. He can’t really describe it. 

Peter gets a wink from Tessa as they part ways, and he grins like an absolute fool all the way to the subway station. He discards the Starbucks cup and thinks that Natasha Bedingfield might be right,  _ I’ve got a pocketful of sunshine.  _ He’s well aware that he’s putting more emotional weight into this than expected, but whatever.  _ It’s for science!  _ Just as he blips his metro pass, there’s a buzz in his pocket.

_ [ _ @Pessa Purner _ has changed your chat display name to  _ Doug _ ] _

It’s a few days later, Saturday night, and Peter hasn’t been able to stop thinking about the addys hidden under layers of AP coursework. Today’s the day for the final experiment, to see how Spider-man’s work is affected. Once again, he doesn’t want to be a  _ bad scientist.  _ Mister Stark would be proud if he knew how seriously he’s taking this, the commitment. If he acted a bit preoccupied during lab time on Thursday, his mentor either didn’t notice or didn’t deem it distracting enough to acknowledge. He’s written up the skeleton of a lab report on his phone, but he’s planning on filling it with observations from tonight’s patrol. He ponders for a moment, twirling a bit in his swivel chair and tapping the side of his cheek.  _ What’s my hypothesis? Hm. I’ll have a burst of energy just like I did the other day, for sure, and maybe my spidey senses will be heightened as well? That sounds about right. _

He locks his phone and puts it down on the desk after filling out the first section of his report, eyeing the drawer containing the little yellows. During the week he’s realized that it’s not worth it to be mixing this weekend’s pill with a smoothie, especially if he wouldn’t have had the smoothie if it weren’t for the adderall. He may be doing this for science, but he’s definitely not willing to stoop so low as to waste his aunt’s groceries on this. No way. She works hard,  _ too hard,  _ to make ends meet and feed her growing boy. Peter knows that a lot of that growing appetite can be accredited to a certain radioactive arachnid, but that’s nothing she needs to know about.  _ As well as some  _ other _ things recently. Is this becoming a pattern? _

He finally opens the desk drawer, rifles around a bit with his hand. He pops his last ever yellow pill (because it  _ is,  _ honestly and truly) into his mouth and swallows it down dry when he’s certain May’s not too close by, taking out the trash. He also sneaks one into the lining of the suit, just in case the first one doesn’t work. You never know. 

Alright. Time to revise the game plan one last time before climbing out the bedroom window and swinging out into the night. Peter doesn’t expect any major interfering or rescuing having to be done tonight. In fact, he’s kind of counting on there  _ not  _ being anything above the usual petty crimes and misplaced bikes on the planned route.  _ I’m not willing to put anyone in potential danger because I don’t know what this’ll do to my powers yet.  _

He’ll take it easy; first there’s the warm up on the way along Queens Boulevard, followed by veering off to Hunter’s Point and maybe breaking up a drug deal.  _ Maybe.  _ Then he’ll do some backflips and general acrobatics by the Queensboro bridge to top it all off before heading to the isle of Manhattan.  _ Heck yeah.  _ It’ll be totally epic and Mister Stark isn’t currently here to tell him he isn’t allowed to do  _ excessive acrobatics,  _ thank you very much. He’s kind of glad that Mister Stark and Happy are away at a conference over the weekend, not that he’d say a peep to anyone about it. He might even spend a few minutes doing laps around the abandoned Stark Tower if there’s time before he’ll have to start heading back. He knows the route takes almost two hours one-way on foot, but he can probably make it there and back again in less than 45 minutes,  _ bet.  _

The bubble starts to grow as he’s almost at the East River, warm and bright in his chest while swinging along the waterfront promenade. It’s quiet tonight, and Peter takes a moment to pause and soak in this moment, this  _ feeling.  _ He removes the mask and gives a chef’s kiss up to the sky at the sight of the city lights glimmering in the water, and laughs at how absurd this is. He tries to feel if his spider sense is in any way heightened or altered, but what he’s mostly feeling is pure bliss. And, okay, maybe that isn’t the  _ best  _ when being Spider-man. But he’s still present, at least, it’s not like he’s all groggy or anything.

Peter Pulls the mask back down and zips out a string of webbing. There’s no one around at this hour, apart from the occasional passing car below him, and he does some one-handed back handsprings on one of the bridge beams. _This is interesting,_ he thinks. _In class I was so focused on my work while on addy, but as Spider-man I’m more interested in having fun. Maybe it’s the adrenaline talking? It’s not like there’s much of that at school._ He tests the theory; shoots another couple of webs out from his wrist canisters and swings across the bridge. He makes sure to cut it close, almost dragging his feet along the asphalt on the lanes, before tugging himself up and landing firmly on the other side. Yep, it’s confirmed. The adderall does bring on more adrenaline on its own, but some more from the spider shenanigans has him _reeling._

“Holy  _ shit, _ ” he whispers. Now this is really something he’s got to write down when he gets back home. He considers if he really  _ needs  _ to swing over to Manhattan, because he can stay here in the borough and jump between roof tops, right? Right. Just to make sure there’s nothing serious that needs dealing with, he calls upon his favorite AI. “Hey Karen, what’s going on over there?” He nods to the shore on the other side of the water and counts on her sensors picking it up, understanding what he means. 

_ “Good evening, Peter. There has been a collision involving two vehicles on 3rd Avenue.” _ She pulls up the directions on the HUD.  _ “Street criminals have broken the window to a jewelry store in Lenox Hill, but fled the scene before any extensive damage could be done and nothing was stolen. Neither of these are serious incidents that require the help of Spider-man. Would you like me to give you a more thorough analysis?” _

“Thank you, Karen, but I don’t need more details. Good job.” He figures that the less he knows, the less guilty he’ll feel for turning back the same way he came and cutting patrol short. The mapped-out route lighting up the HUD disappears again.  _ Alright.  _ He starts heading back to Sunnyside in good spirits, high on life...and  _ other things.  _ He realizes he must’ve spent more time that he thought up on the bridge, as Karen lets him know that it’s been more than an hour since he climbed out the window. Peter guesses that it’s probably harder to keep track of time while high and drifting, and he makes a mental note to add that to the list later. He swings to the side of the CVS building on Lowery Street, not too far from home, and climbs all the way up to the roof. He positions himself with his feet dangling off the edge. 

He whistles, still impressed by the view even though he’s been up here countless times already. But then again, he’s never been on  _ addy _ while here before. “Take a snapshot of this, will you, Karen?” Peter instructs, because he’ll be damned if he ever forgets how things look tonight. The pill must be starting to wear off, though, because he’s not feeling quite as carefree as he did just a few moments ago. He feels around at the side of his suit, circling his index finger around the extra pill hidden in the lining, the  _ insurance.  _ What if he were to take that one as well?  _ I did say that this would be my last pill, but what difference will one more make, really? Just this once. And it’s still the same test run so it’s technically the  _ same  _ “once” as an hour ago!  _ He swiftly decides that he’s got some time to kill before curfew at 10:30, and pops the adderall into his mouth, swallowing.  _ If Spidey wants to feel doped up and look at the skyline on a rooftop, then Spidey’s gonna take his pill and look at the  _ god damn sky.  _ Spider-man does whatever a spider can!  _

He belly laughs at the reference, because he’s always found that theme song hilarious. And up here he feels like everything’s  _ amazingly  _ hilarious _.  _ He marvels at how insanely great everything is, because  _ shit,  _ he never knew it could be  _ this _ great! It seems like having the effect of two pills coursing through his body tops the way he felt on the bridge, and he gets the urge to  _ scream,  _ because the whole world needs to know just how fantastic this is and he also can’t seem to stop doing cartwheels.  _ Fucking cartwheels! _

He stays on the rooftop for a while longer, just doing what his drug-addled brain wants him to in the moment. He then decides to make his way back home, jumping between buildings with his heartbeat thrumming loudly in his ears. Karen suggests that maybe it’s best to rest at one point, but he waves her off.  _ Rest? I don’t need rest. My heart’s pounding so hard I can feel it in my toes, sure, but I’m out  _ swinging.  _ It’s to be expected.  _ When Peter slinks in through the window, he takes extra care to be quiet. The only thing worse than aunt May finding out he’s Spider-man would be her finding out he’s Spider-man  _ while also high.  _ Now that’s nightmare fuel for sure. 

He taps the spider emblem with his palm and steps out of the suit, folding it gently before hiding it in the back of the closet. He listens for his aunt’s footsteps to make sure she’s not in the livingroom, so he can claim to have come home quietly through the front door when she wasn’t looking, like, you know, a  _ normal person  _ would. His  _ I’m at Ned’s place building LEGOs and playing video games  _ alibi is still holding up, and whenever May’s called to check up on her nephew, Ned’s always had his back, seemingly fishing new detailed stories out of his ass.  _ He’s a real one,  _ Peter thinks as he grabs an old t-shirt and some boxers, heading for the shower. Then, while trying not to laugh, he replays  _ ass ass ass  _ in his mind a few times, because he’s juvenile like that. He feels like a secret agent while hyped up like this, sneaking along the walls.  _ This is so damn cool,  _ the rush not matching what he’s  _ actually  _ doing at all. It doesn’t really matter though, because heading for the bathroom has never felt this  _ exciting.  _ Especially because he isn’t actually wearing any clothes, counting on stealth to ensure May won’t be catching a glimpse of his bits. 

Peter closes and locks the bathroom door as carefully as possible, the  _ click  _ of the lock turning slowly practically silent to his own ears. He drops the clothes on the floor and turns on the shower. He’s always liked to shower in hot water (and he’s always felt guilty about raising the water bill, so he only treats himself to scalding showers sometimes) and turns the knob almost as far as it will go. Tonight, he’ll indulge.  _ Perfect.  _ He has to catch himself on the shower doors to not skid when stepping in with fervor, and  _ shit, that’s slippery.  _ But the water’s heavenly when it surrounds him. The droplets cascade down his back, and he’s pretty sure that water has never felt this good on his skin before.  _ There seems to be a lot of that tonight.  _ He scrubs himself down with lavender soap and lathers shampoo in his hair.

He thinks for a moment;  _ if everything’s so  _ extra  _ on addy, maybe I should take this moment to rub one out to see if that’s any different.  _ He sighs and moves his hand down to where he wants it. He’s missed this, but it’s not like he’s willingly  _ abstained  _ from masturbating. He’s just been so busy and stressed that he hasn’t had the time or been in the mood for it when getting home all exhausted, yet still not able to get enough sleep. Peter has to bite the back of his free hand in order to keep quiet when he starts stroking.  _ Holy fuck, it’s definitely a whole other ballgame like this!  _ It’s barely a dozen strokes later when he comes so hard his knees nearly give out, and he swears some of his brain must’ve emptied through his cock as well, because he can’t fucking  _ think.  _ He helps the sticky white fluid down the drain a bit with his foot while catching his breath, still heaving. He has to sit down a bit on the tiles for a minute.  _ That was the best orgasm of my life!  _ Everything’s still turned up to eleven when he finally rinses his hair and turns off the water. 

There’s a sense of calm within him as he dries off and pulls on his boxers. He really needed this, some time for himself in the shower. Now don’t get him wrong, he’s still  _ high as hell,  _ but all thoughts of the scholarship and his duties are gone. After putting on deodorant he pulls on the t-shirt and exits the humid bathroom. This time, however, he makes sure that his aunt hears him, and he greets her in the kitchen. “Hey May, what’s up?” He’s repeating  _ don’t act high don’t act high don’t  _ fucking  _ act high  _ on a loop in his mind while sitting down on a chair opposite her. It’s not ideal right now, but he always spends a few moments with her after “being at Ned’s”, and he doesn’t want to act off.

“Hey, sweetie, I didn’t hear you come in?” she says, hugging her mug of tea in her hands. “Do you want some tea? I’ll put the kettle back on and slice and apple if you want.” Peter considers the offer of a fruit. But no, he’s not really hungry at the moment. He’s usually ravenous after patrol, but he suspects that this, too, is something addy alters.  _ One more item for the lab report.  _

“Oh, um, no. I-, no apple for me. But thank you, though. I’ll have some tea, if that’s alright?” he replies, and, wait, why do his words feel like a jumbled mess coming out of his mouth? _ It’s like there lives a frog in there or something.  _ And he thinks he might have blurted out the sentence a little too fast, but he isn’t sure.  _ I’m supposed to be focused and alert on adderall, not turned up to eleven like a Duracell bunny, doped up to my teeth. Right?  _ He can’t deny that he likes the feeling of  _ this,  _ whatever he’d call this experience, more than he liked being on addy on Thursday. It’s technically the same chemicals coursing through his body, only twice the amount. He was focused on his work and excited, albeit a little jumpy, a few days ago in class, but after ingesting the second pill tonight, he’s  _ flying.  _

May puts down the mug of hot tea in front of him, and Peter decides at that moment that he’s got to ride this glorious high out alone in his room if he wants to keep it a secret. “I’m feeling a headache coming on from all the video games,” he lies, and starts heading out of the kitchen, grasping the ear of the mug in his hand. Once back in the safety of his room, he puts the tea down on his desk and does a celebratory dance. “I did it, I did it, I  _ did  _ it,” he sings silently under his breath, because  _ he got past aunt May!  _ She’s always on the lookout for something,  _ anything,  _ out of the ordinary. He loves her for it, but that makes it a bit more difficult to keep the pill-usage a secret.

Peter is way too keyed up to be able to sleep tonight, and one look at the Star Wars clock on the wall tells him that he’s got six and a half hours until him being up  _ isn’t  _ suspicious. And then he could go to the nearest coffee shop and splurge on some ridiculously healthy smoothie, pretending to be up bright and early instead of just not going to sleep at all. Yeah. That’s what he’ll do tomorrow. But for now, he’s got to figure out what to do until then. It’s times like this that Peter gets why Mister Stark likes being down in the lab when his insomnia acts up. He  _ really  _ wishes he could tinker with something right now. There’s still all this excess energy surging just under his skin, and he thinks that maybe Happy’s got something for him to do? Like, there’s got to be something that he needs help with.

_ Peter Parker:  _ **_hey hap, its me. peter parker. anyway, im just messaging u to see if theres anything i can help out with tonight? maybe mister stark has some suit improvements i can work on or something idk_ **

Peter puts down his phone, not really expecting a reply but still a smidge hopeful.  _ It’s not like he ever writes back, but maybe if I call him?  _ Then  _ he has to get that I’m serious.  _ He presses the dial button and holds on to that hope. It is, as expected, crushed as he gets sent to voicemail after two rings. Checking the (mostly one-way) conversation thread they’ve got going confirms his suspicions that Happy  _ has,  _ in fact, seen the message, but actively chooses not to text anything back.  _ Damn him. _

_ [Message read 00:03] _


	3. Chapter 3

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Kudos and comments are appreciated <3

As the sun starts rising over the neighborhood a little before 6am, Peter has spent the night snickering at meme accounts on Twitter, and the high is long gone. The rest of the weekend passes much the same, except he spends most of it high. He makes sure to only have one pill in his system at once, to keep May or Ned from noticing that anything’s different about him. Video games are more intense, _things in general_ are, and he decides on the Sunday night, on Ned’s livingroom floor with chips crammed into his mouth, that he’s not giving up this feeling for anything. And if he takes two again that night to enjoy that strong buzz, then no one has to know.

He intends to spend the following week in a similar way as well, and it starts out great; Peter takes one adderall in the morning just before leaving for school, and the next one by sneaking away right before lunch, when the first one starts wearing off. If MJ looks at him a little more than usual, he tries to ignore it. _She’s most likely not used to seeing me not-stressed. There’s no way she can tell that I’m high right now. I’m not even_ that _high!_ He makes an extra effort to engage in conversation about the upcoming calc test, about last night’s gaming session, about _whatever,_ really. 

What he really wants is to enjoy the moderate high he’s got going on, and then go home and pop two more pills. His priorities should probably be schoolwork, Spider-man, and then something that _isn’t_ drugs. Most likely. But here’s the thing: he doesn’t fucking care. The rush he’s experienced over the weekend makes acing tests and webbing his way between buildings seem small in comparison. Itty bitty. But he’s keeping up with his assignments during school hours, still, and manages to catch some petty criminals here and there without missing his mark. Mostly.

Tuesday’s mostly the same, at least before lunch. That’s when he’s hit with the realization that the pill he just downed is his _last._ It’s not like he’s addicted or anything, no way. He just really really prefers to be on something, and he didn’t expect the supply to run out so fast. Peter locks himself in a bathroom stall, back against the grimy wall, and scrambles for his phone. Again, he’s not dependent on the addy, just _prefers it._ His thumb slips a bit and he accidentally opens the text app instead of Facebook, and he sighs as he closes it. _Damn clumsy hands._ At least it removes that annoying notification dot.

_Doug:_ **_hey tessa, its me again_ **

_Doug:_ **_also wow im gonna switch back our names bc thats so annoying_ **

_[_ @Doug _has changed their chat display name to_ Peter _]_

_[_ @Peter _has changed your chat display name to_ Tessa _]_

_Peter:_ **_much better_ **

_Tessa:_ **_Oh hey again! :) Do you need me to get you some more yellows?_ **

_Peter:_ **_yeah haha,,,,, theres no use beatin around the bush is there_ **

_Tessa:_ **_No there isn’t ;) Same time and place as last time, then?_ **

Peter wants to say yes so badly, wants to just tell her that she can come hand him the drugs at school right now, as long as he’s guaranteed a chill night high on a rooftop somewhere, far away from his worries. But. Of course things play out like this, it’s _his_ luck. Tuesday afternoons mean getting picked up by a grumpy Happy, who’d rather do anything else than taking him to the compound for some lab time. Normally he’d be through the roof with excitement at the mere thought of returning to the lab, especially after a few weeks of Mister Stark being too busy for him to come, but he’s so nervous about getting that _score._ And shit, is this not what they tell you? To watch out for when the pills start being the priority? _But this is just for me to relax a little, to not stress myself to death._ In fact, it’s for his own _good._ He’ll just have to meet up Tessa closer to six, Peter figures.

_Peter:_ **_um actually im kinda busy until about 6, can we meet up then_ **

_Tessa:_ **_Alright. 6:15. What place?_ **

_Peter:_ **_can i get back to u on that ?? sorry_ **

_Tessa:_ **_Okay? But let me know the place five pm at the latest._ **

_Peter:_ **_also im gonna need a few more,,,,, 40 mayb e?_ **

_Tessa:_ **_I’ll see what I can do._ **

He’s done the simple math; that amount of pills will last him ten days. He isn’t really _comfortable_ with begging for uppers over text like this, because if there’s anything that makes him feel like an _absolute junkie,_ it’s that. He’d rather just pop his little yellow friends and ride the high like a surfer. And pretend like he isn’t _on_ something while doing it, of course. It’s easier to slip a pill unnoticed at night though, since May thinks he’s at Ned’s, and Ned probably thinks he’s off on some secret rendezvous, or something. Or maybe on Avengers business. _As if!_ Mister Stark would let him know if he could help with anything, right? And he’s busy with _important_ stuff, he doesn’t seem to have any plans for communication with Peter outside of lab time. And wow, thinking of Mister Stark while also thinking of getting drugs makes him feel insanely guilty. _He’d be so disappointed if he knew._ Even if his mentor would try coddling him and say that it’s fine, he’d still know deep down that the man just doesn’t want Peter to end up in the same dark place he once clawed his way back from. 

Even though it’s convenient for Peter to be buying 40 addys at once, that also brings forth a problem he needs to deal with. Apart from the guilt, that is. That many pills will set him back _140 dollars._ That’s money he definitely can’t afford to spend on this, even if he’s got the bills wrinkled up in his wallet, ready to go. But no, that’s for _emergencies,_ as May’s told him. _But isn’t this an emergency, though? Pretty sure it is._

He’s an odd mix of _nervous_ and _carefree_ when walking up to Happy’s shiny (and probably newly waxed) Audi after class is over. The adderall keeps him pumped and feeling like he can conquer the world, while the knowledge that he’s now without pills until Tessa gives him more is a bit like a damp blanket over everything. _I’m at her mercy._ He makes sure to be extra cheerful when greeting his grumpy driver, but not _too_ cheerful. Even if Happy doesn’t say a lot to him, Peter’s got a feeling that he _notices._ And maybe he even relays to Stark, who knows? Not _Peter,_ that’s for damn sure. _Because no one ever texts me._

Happy isn’t one for pleasantries, and just tells him to get in the car so they can get this ride over with. Peter puts his bag on the seat beside him, buckles in, and tells Happy he’s ready to go. The partition closes as soon as the engine revs, and he thinks that Happy must be _extra_ moody today since he’s not even letting Peter _attempt_ small talk before shutting him down. Oh well. At least he won’t have to be a nervous wreck while in the car. Not because of _Happy,_ anyway. He decides that laying down would be much more comfortable, so he swiftly unbuckles his seatbelt and slides down on his side. _These seats must be filled with feather down or some shit, because this is so comfy!_

“Hey,” can be heard from the other side of the screen. “Stop messing around and put your seatbelt back on! What are you, five? The boss is going to have me killed if you don’t arrive in one piece, _Jesus,_ ” Happy reprimands him, and Peter tries to think of a lie that’ll let him stay in this position for a little while longer.

“Um, sorry, I accidentally hit the button while looking through my bag. I’ll put it back on.” He reaches his hand out and puts the buckle back where it’s supposed to be for the car to stop beeping, and reclines again. Happy doesn’t need to know that he’s not actually seated properly. He’ll have over an hour to rest like this before he needs to sit up in order to not be caught, anyway. _There’s no need to rush._ Looking up and out through the window, he’s confused when there’s not an increase in trees and open space, but instead endless scrapers flashing by. _Are we not going to the compound today?_ he wonders. He also wonders if Happy being in a foul mood has anything to do with the text he sent the other day and the fact that Happy then had to take precious seconds out of his busy schedule to _read_ it, but Peter then decides that he doesn’t care. He just wants to help out, so _sue_ him. He briefly thinks that maybe he should stop helping out when he’s asked, see how _they_ like it when he doesn’t reply. _Hah._ But then he realizes that he’d probably be fired as intern-slash-superhero, and thinks better of it. 

Only a short while after getting into the vehicle and settling into the seat nicely, things stop moving. He barely has the time to scramble himself up into a sitting position before the door opens, and he thinks that _shit, has it been this bright outside all this time?_ The bulletproof windows are tinted, so of course he can feel a splitting headache coming on when daylight’s flooding his vision so suddenly. He doesn’t get much further in his analysis of the car or his pounding head, because suddenly the real owner of the Audi is standing _right there,_ in the flesh. Tony fucking Stark is looking down at him through those tinted and dual-toned Police glasses that only _he_ could make cool, and Peter’s mind only goes to one thing: _well shit._

“I didn’t peg you as someone to break traffic rules, or _any_ rules, so I must say I’m a bit surprised.” Mister Stark holds out one hand towards him, as if to help him up or grab the backpack that’s slid down the seat and onto the floor during the drive, maybe. But no, he won’t do that for Peter because they’re not _like that,_ they don’t hug or share funny stories about their day, don’t lend each other a hand with affection. At least not yet. He sometimes wishes that Mister Stark would see him as his own kid, and he’s caught himself thinking of the man as _dad_ in secret quite a few times before. _That’s what losing father figures will do to you,_ he thinks. 

Mister Stark’s extended hand falls back to his side, because of course it’s only a symbolic gesture, it means nothing more than _hurry up, I’ve got things to do and you are setting me back precious minutes,_ and Peter will just have to be okay with that for now. Not that he doesn’t desperately wish for it to be a loving gesture, but he picks up the backpack off the floor, worms himself out of the car and sets his feet down on the asphalt instead. He’ll have time to daydream later, right now he occupies his slightly foggy mind with wondering why they’re outside of the tower instead of up north at the compound. He figures, why not ask?

He gets a look he can’t quite read from his mentor, followed by a huff. “I _did_ tell FRIDAY to send you a text explaining we’re using the old lab in the city, didn’t I?” Peter thinks that he most definitely didn’t because he’d have seen that notification, surely. And he texted Tessa only a little while ago as well, so him having an unread message isn’t likely. He doesn’t have to voice any of this (or at least the _legal_ parts of it) for Mister Stark to get that the message hasn’t reached the recipient, and taps the side of his glasses. _Of course he’s got his AI assistant built into all of his glasses, I expect nothing less._ “FRIDAY? Yeah, hi, did you send the text to Parker that I asked you to yesterday, or do you have an issue we need to talk through, heart to heart? Are your circuits failing, is that it? Talk to me, dear.”

_“I did indeed transcribe and send the message you dictated in its entirety, boss. I do not believe there has been an error on my part. And my circuits are in perfect order, but I do appreciate the concern. Is there anything else I can assist you with at this time, or will that be all?”_

“Hm,” is Mister Stark’s response. “I see. Thank you, FRI.” He taps the frame of his glasses again, and the interface disappears. Peter fiddles a bit with the backpack straps as Stark turns away from him and starts walking towards the main entrance, and he does a little jog to catch up. He can’t help himself and checks the time on his phone when they’re halfway through the lobby, _only a couple more hours until I get more pills,_ and he doesn’t miss the look he gets for that.

“Now, if I didn’t know you’re absolutely coocoo about entering the lab with me, I’d almost think you don’t want to _be_ here, with the way you’re checking that thing.” Peter’s cheeks heat up, because he’s _right,_ here he’s been granted access to one of the world’s most advanced facilities next to his _childhood hero,_ and he’s checking his phone to see when he’s allowed to _leave._ He feels a pang of guilt. _I’m being such an ungrateful brat._ He pockets the device quickly and tries to think of something to say that conveys that he’s not at all ungrateful, _really,_ but also doesn’t reveal the _drugs_ part. 

“Sorry, Mister Stark, I-, um, I have a bio quiz I have to study for with a friend. And, uh, we’re meeting at around 6.” He hopes that’s enough information to not warrant more questions, because he doesn’t want to have to make up details on the spot like this, _especially_ not now that he just so happens to be a little bit high. And damn, his eyes are still feeling a bit sore from the sudden lighting change coming out of the car. _Yeah, I’m definitely not on my a-game._ He silently prays that no one will notice that he’s not quite himself, because the risk of him getting busted is much, much higher now than it was in the car only minutes ago. 

Mister Stark doesn’t question it, because why would he have reason to? Peter is notorious for not slacking when it comes to assignments, and his mentor sure knows about it. He spent the entire plane ride to _and_ from Germany just plowing through books and taking notes. He just doesn’t want to risk falling behind, and no matter how _talented_ or _amazing_ others might think he is, Peter himself knows that it’s only a matter of practice for him. He’s not special, he just happens to read up on a lot of things. _If I were smarter, maybe Flash wouldn’t be right on my heels for that scholarship,_ he knows. It sucks.

It sucks so much, in fact, that he only narrowly avoids crashing into his mentor as he stops to wait for one of the elevators down to the lab. Maybe. Or maybe he actually did walk into his back? He’s missed it, obviously, too lost in thought to pay enough attention. _Maybe he didn’t notice,_ he thinks briefly, but that little glimmer of hope is crushed as the man right in front of him does a full-body turn, and looks at him in a way that can only be described as _perplexed._

“Tell me, Parker, are you usually this uncoordinated? I can’t remember ever seeing-, no, change that, ever _feeling_ you walking into things like this. _Are you-,_ what am I thinking, no, never mind.” That gaze seems to be searching for something in his own, and Peter tries to push down the instinct to _run_ or _throw up_ or _do anything but being here_ as he’s, once again, given a squinty eyed once-over. He feels a bit guilty for thinking this, but he’s glad Mister Stark is honest-to-god half asking him if he’s drunk in the middle of the afternoon on a Tuesday. Fucked up, he knows, but that means he’s off the scent and not actually onto him. Stark holds his gaze and leans in towards his face. It’s probably not meant to be noticed, but Peter hears two short puffs of air settling in his lungs. _He’s checking if I smell like booze. Of course he knows all about it._

Peter acts as if he doesn’t notice any of this, and schools his face into what he hopes is a neutral yet warm expression. He decides that he’s got to act as if he doesn’t realize there are suspicions, and settles for doing the little jogging motions side to side that Not High Peter would do when he’s excited about something but still attempts to reign it in, and decides that he’s doing alright, because he _came up with the idea on the spot._

He isn’t 100 percent sure that he’s in the right state of mind to be the judge of this, though, since he’s finding himself fascinated with how the monstera deliciosa and monstera variegata plants in the glazed ceramic pots by the elevators could easily grow to have leaves larger than the size of his own _head,_ and he has to stop himself from leaning into them and reaching out a hand to touch. “I’ve always wanted one of these,” he says before he thinks to put a lid on it. _This is where you zip it,_ goes through his mind, but he’s already started talking and it would be weirder to just stop now, wouldn’t it? As the elevator dings and the doors open, he hears a _huh,_ and takes this as a sort-of cue to go on, to explain. At least he hopes it is a cue, because otherwise he’s about to bore Mister Stark out of his god damn _mind._ There’s a beep as the elevator recognizes his fingerprint on the sensor, and down they go. And Peter opens that big mouth of his.

“Did you know that it can grow to be over 60 feet tall? The plant. Imagine taking a little one home and having it become a giant! And the leaves actually unfurl from the stem of mature ones and they’ve already got the swiss cheese holes, isn’t that _cool?_ More plants should do more shi-, uh, I mean _stuff_ like that. Yeah. And if it bears fruit, which is kind of rare for an indoor monstera, it apparently tastes like a mix between banana and pineapple. Oh, and the monstera spends part of its life as an epiphyte, so it actually gets some of what it needs from air roots! That’s so neat! Imagine if humans could do that.” He takes a few deep breaths, and suddenly realizes that he’s been talking a million miles a minute without checking if Stark actually _wants_ to hear about any of this. 

“I didn’t know you were big on greens, Spidey. Maybe I need to build you a gardening space with perfectly controlled humidity. Now that’d sure be something.” _So...Mister Stark_ isn’t _mad that I went on a long rant about plants? Neat. But I’ll need to keep from doing it too much, I can’t yap more than usual. Focus._

They enter the abandoned lab, and it’s looking kind of bare-bones since all of the relevant equipment’s been shipped to the compound to be used there. Not being greeted by Dum-E and U’s soft whirring noises as they take in the room feels strange in a way after getting used to the little robots, and he voices this as it’s probably a safe topic that he can’t accidentally fuck up. “I mean, they’re just so _cute_ and I miss the way they do that little whiney thing when you threaten to turn them into wine racks.” 

“Just to be sure, you _do know_ that my robots are not built to be cute, but to help me work, don’t you? And the threats just keep them on their toes, or _wheels,_ makes them work better. Although they’ve started to slack a bit lately, so maybe I’ll just remove the wiring inside and turn them into modern art pieces, I could put them up on pedestals by the lab entrance. They’d be of about as much use to me then, if not _more._ ” There’s this little glint of mischief in his eyes, and Peter decided long ago that he likes this Tony the best. The one that isn’t afraid to make a little joke, the one that doesn’t feel quite as uptight as he can sometimes be. 

_The one that doesn’t scold me on rooftops,_ he thinks, but of course he was _right._ Peter needed that telling off in order to get his priorities straight and understand that everything going on around him is a lot bigger than himself, and if he wants to make a mark he needs to _work for it._ But he also gets that he can’t just go after big villains left and right, he needs to be careful. 

So, hence stopping petty crimes, and addy-enhanced studying. _I’m going to show him that I can be better, I’m doing this for him._ It’s kind of stupid to give one man this much power over him, but who’s he kidding, _everything he’s ever done_ has been for his hero. The Hammer drones almost killing him at the expo planted a seed in him, and he’s let that guide him ever since. Dumpster diving to get old circuits, getting into Midtown, it’s all been in pursuit of excellence, so he can one day become just as great as Tony Stark. Over the years, that little seed has grown from a stickling to a tree, and he knows he’s close to something now, only he doesn’t know _what._

“Now,” Tony says, effectively bringing Peter back to reality. “The reason I brought you here and not to the new labs, is to show you that it isn’t about the tools you have, but what you _do_ with them. Of course things run more smoothly with the newest and most advanced equipment, but that means _jack shit_ if you don’t actually know the process behind it and just let the tech do all the work _for you._ If you’re ever in a situation where you don’t have access to this,” he gestures around him, “you need to know your fundamentals and how to get from A to B with the bare minimum. You build functioning tech from pieces you find in the _garbage,_ so you’re a bit along the way already, squirt.”

The fundamentals, it turns out, are more boring than he expects, at least when he’s in this state of mind. He’s coming down from his high and making circuit diagrams the size of half a table. _How riveting,_ he scoffs in his mind. The glowing user interface next to them shows the current time up in one corner, and the minutes trickle by at a glacial pace. If only he had a pill in his pocket, he could sneak away to the nearest bathroom and take it. _Dear god, release me from this hell._

Mister Stark, it turns out  _ not completely unexpectedly,  _ has no shortage of laptops to loan him. Apparently the one Peter’s built from scraps in a garbage pile isn’t good enough to handle some of the software needed for him to access the beta version of  _ something really fucking cool that he can’t really remember  _ along with some oddly specific percentage of a decryption key _.  _ There’s talk of a need for him to familiarize himself with both the UI  _ and  _ the UX in case of some  _ also very specific  _ turn of events. He tries to reject the no doubt expensive computer, but ultimately gets a lecture on how he’s got to comply in order to ensure that the data stream between the different AIs at play can’t be tampered with from an outside source, and quickly realizes that fighting this isn’t going to work.

As the time ticks over to 5:47, Peter decides that he’s waited long enough. He puts down the pen he’s holding, crams the shiny laptop into his backpack, and almost flies out of his seat. _Play it cool, play it cool._ “Sorry, sir, but I have to leave early in order to meet my friend in time to study for that _really super important_ quiz. See you!” Before his mentor even has the chance to reply, he’s in the elevator, doors closing behind him as he presses the _ground floor_ button four more times than necessary. Scuttling away like this probably looks kind of weird, but Stark’ll probably just think that he’s nervous about school. _I should be._ He can feel the pounding in his head picking up, and he’s making sure to not look _pained_ in case someone reviews the security camera footage later, for some reason. He picks his cell out of his backpack, _finally,_ and tilts the screen away from where he knows the camera is located. 

_Peter:_ **_im free now, c u outside the stark tower in the city? im walking out thru the lobby now_ **

_Tessa:_ **_What the fuck, you’re at the tower? Did you break in to steal something or what?_ **

_Peter:_ **_lol no i intern there, paperwork n shit_ **

_Tessa:_ **_That sounds really cool and also really boring, to be honest. I’ll be there in ten minutes tops._ **

_Peter:_ **_k, c u_ **

Zipping his bag back up, he makes his way out of the elevator and through the lobby. Before going through the heavy glass doors and out onto the busy New York street, he puts in his headphones. Spider senses coupled with a dash of withdrawal will no doubt make the hustle and bustle of the city feel like it’s grating his eardrums, _no thank you._ He can see that Happy’s standing out front, talking to some other guy that’s also in a suit, no doubt an extra security detail for Mister Stark since the systems in the tower are mostly shut down, only a few standard protocols left in place. 

Peter decides that he’ll probably look suspicious standing around outside of the tower for 15 minutes by himself, so he plops down in one of the chairs near the vacant reception, and decides to browse through the latest Spider-man memes in that one Reddit thread he’s bookmarked. He gets through half a dozen pages, and is reading the origin story of _whomst’d’ve,_ with that headache pounding more and more every second, and his phone buzzes indicating a phone call coming through. _I_ need _to stop putting my phone back in my bag,_ he thinks as he’s scrambling to get a hold of it before the caller is sent to voice mail. He just misses it, but upon seeing that it’s Tessa, he realizes that he might’ve spent a little too much time on his phone. 

He decides that calling her back won’t be necessary since she’s only across the street, and hurries out through the doors. Happy’s nowhere to be seen, _that I know of,_ so Peter feels giddier already. He can almost taste that chalky little pill on his tongue, sliding down his throat, and picks up the pace. He sees her standing near the edge of Central Park, just against the low brick wall separating 5th Avenue from the greens, under an elm tree. She doesn’t look impressed.

Scurrying across the street, he tries to determine if it’d be weird to greet her as if they’re friends. Are they? They’ve seen each other a few times now, and they aired out some of their dirty laundry at the party, so they might be _buds?_ Or more like...drug acquaintances. But they don’t do drugs _together,_ they only meet for the transaction. _Hm._ He guesses she won’t appreciate him showing up late to a meeting _he_ requested, only to ask if they’re chummy chums, so he decides to drop it. After all, he’s here for the mellow yellows. Nothing else.

“Glad you decided to show up,” she says, clearly annoyed. “Let’s get this over with. I couldn’t get the exact pills you wanted, but I’ve got the next best thing, _benzos.”_ She holds out her hand to shake it, and Peter can see the little bag peeking out from under her sleeve. He takes it and tries to look inconspicuous as he slips it into his pocket, just like last time.

“Um, what do you mean by that? Benzos? What exactly have you given me, then?” He runs his fingers over the pills. They feel slightly different, oval. “Are they-, do they go well with studying?” He starts to feel a bit clammy, because he doesn’t want to question this, or _be_ questioned. He just wants to get hold of his regular batch and go home, damn it. 

“Xanax,” she whispers. “But quit the bullshit act, we both know you’re not just taking the addy to _study._ These are downers instead of uppers, but you’ll still feel real fucking good. Now do we have a deal or not? Us just standing around like this will start to look shady if we don’t move soon.”

“Yeah, I mean _yes,_ we have a deal. 140, right?” He starts groping around in his other pocket, ready to fish out the bills.

She _tsk_ s him. “This shit wasn’t cheap for me to get, so it’s 180 bucks. And that’s only because I _know you._ 180 or nothing, your pick.” _Fuck. I definitely can’t afford this, I don’t even know if Xanax will be worth it!_ But he decides that he’s made it this far, so, naturally, he might as well keep on going. He holds out his closed fist with the dollar bills, and they complete the transaction with a firm handshake. “There, that wasn’t so hard, was it, Parker?”

He returns Tessa’s smile, and they walk their separate ways without saying goodbye. He hears her shout “you know I’m only a text away!” and thinks that _I know, that’s the problem._ But fuck if he doesn’t feel good knowing there are pills in his possession again. He manages to get the bag open with two fingers while it’s still in his pocket, and sneakily pops one pill right before entering the subway. _Here we go, here we go, here we fucking go._

He almost expects the benzodiazepine to make its way through his system instantly, and is a bit disappointed when he remembers that it takes a few minutes before it kicks in. He boards the right train and strategically chooses a seat. If there’s a free seat in a good spot, chances are someone’s _puked_ there, and he doesn’t want to risk it. He could always use his enhanced nose to check if there’s any vomit on the train at all, but his head’s still pounding like a bass drum and he can’t really concentrate on anything.

  
  


_That’s what I get for not checking how many pills I’ve got left in time._ He chooses a seat in an area where the overhead lights are broken, submerging him in nice, much needed shadow. He sighs, relieved that they’re entering a tunnel. _Damn Mister Stark for opening that car door so suddenly, he could’ve warned me. And now I’ve got to deal with this pain in my skull for the rest of the day. Rude._

He knows somewhere deep down that it’s not _really_ Mister Stark’s fault, because opening car doors is standard practice and he didn’t even know that Peter’s experiencing slight withdrawal symptoms. He’s brought the misery upon himself, but he tries not to think too much about that little detail. And besides, even if it were his mentor’s fault, Peter can never hold a grudge against him for long. He thinks back to the ferry incident and the following conversation on the roof, and he remembers being hurt and _pissed_ that his hero could say something like that to him. At the time he felt like it was the ultimate betrayal, but not soon after, _in the rubble of that warehouse to be exact,_ he understood what lesson it was that he needed. Behind every long and possibly strange speech is a lesson just waiting to be learned, if he can only open up and see things from another perspective. _I’m getting better at it, Stark’d be proud that I’m relaxing!_

The train jolts him in a steep curve, and he’s immediately snapped out of his thoughts. Apparently he’s farther along the way than expected, only three stops from the station on Lowery Street. _Damn._ Looking around himself, Peter realizes that the train is practically empty apart from two little old ladies, talking excitedly about bingo night. _That's sweet._ Remembering that video of a girl singing loudly while thinking she's alone on a train, only to find out there was _another person on the train_ pops into his mind, making him laugh out loud. This could be just like that, if he'd only have the balls to bust out some show tunes. _Since when do I do that on the fucking_ train _? Why am I actually considering this?_

That same _Compass Health Group_ ad is still running in the subway system it seems, because it’s right there when he looks up at the row of colorful rectangles exclaiming why you absolutely need this and this and _this,_ and he wonders if it’s possible that he’s riding on the exact same train as he did going home from the party. No, that can’t be right. He rolls with that thought and lets it take him to the land of calculating the number of subway cars in the city of New York, how often they switch around, the number of stops possible, and it’s only when he looks at his hands and sees them moving in slow motion that he realizes that he’s already high as a motherfucking kite.

Now that he’s actually paying attention, everything around him seems a bit distorted, as if someone’s put wool in his ears and applied a filter to the world, and when he whips his head from one side to the other, reality is delayed for a bit before tilting along with him. Tess was right, he _does_ feel real fucking good on Xanax. It’s a bit of a different high than the one he is used to with Adderall; being on addy is like a heavy drum beat going a million miles a minute, whereas these benzos are more like a deep and syrupy bass line, going through his chest with every pump of his heart. It’s really, really good. 

  
  


Going over the bridge to Queens, he marvels at how pretty the city is. Sure, he felt the same way while looking at the stars from the CVS building near his apartment too, but now he feels more like he could spend _days_ watching the sun setting over the skyline and not have to bounce on the soles of his feet the entire time. It’s just _different._ He comes to a conclusion: the only way to tell which pill’s the best is to _science the shit out of this._ He’ll add the notes on these new pills to the already existing document as he finds new and interesting things, and _holy hell, I’m too high to think about science right now. I’ll pencil that down later on something, maybe. Fuck, this feels so good._

Peter just barely gets off the train at the right stop before he’s sandwiched between the closing doors, and his reaction time sure has gone to utter _shit_ during the relatively short commute. The fact that it also takes him way too long to remember what his stop is actually _called_ is a little bit alarming, but his brain is too occupied with this _good, good, gooey, mushy, great, very good, fantastic feeling_ and he has to sit down for a second to avoid tripping down the stairs. Or maybe he really does trip, he isn’t sure either way.

_Very graceful._ He decides that it probably just looks kind of cool, and maybe he could try out for that prestigeful-, _is it prestigeful? Prestigy? Prestididi. Yes, that’s it._ The prestige-something ballet school in the city. It’s just so great that he happened to stumble in the stairs right _here,_ because now everyone will know just how _amazing_ Peter Benjamin Parker is! He gets back up, _so I_ did _fall,_ and wipes the back of his jeans with his hands a few times. There’s something touching his foot but he pays it no mind, it can’t be that important. _Maybe it’s someone’s dog leaning against my ankle. Yeah. Because dogs like that shit, I’ve always wanted a dog. A schnauzer with a big beautiful mustache._ He keeps thinking about that lovely, lovely dog. It’s got to be the best part of his day, this dog. 

He makes an effort to look _not high whatsoever_ as he passes a lady in a bright orange vest stationed by the exit, looking important, and only gets a quick glance as he passes by her. He either does a great job at pretending to be sober, or she’s not really paying him any attention. _I’m a god damn super hero, of course I got by her. I’m the man. The boss._

Somewhere along the train line he decided that putting the phone in his denim pocket was better than constantly taking it out of the backpack and putting it back in there, and he thanks whatever lucky stars are out there, because he doesn’t _have_ his backpack. It’s not on his back, not in his hands, but it definitely _is_ gone. _Oh my god, I could’ve lost almost 200 dollars worth of Xanax! And my phone, definitely glad to still have that on me. But mostly the pills._ He doesn’t care that there was some laptop in there, that’s whatever. It’s no biggie, like, _at all._ He still has the self-made one.

Something tells him in the back of his mind that misplacing this particular laptop is, in fact, a biggie. An astronomical one, a gigantic one, just, _probably going to be an issue for some reason at some point in the future._ But he can’t be bothered by that now, not when he’s so fucking floaty.

If only he could _actually float,_ that would be really convenient. He’d rather not have to tackle this flight of stairs up to the apartment, but what can you do. _Since sliding down bannisters is effective and quick, maybe I can pull myself up them faster than jogging up the stairs, as well?_ he muses, only half aware that it doesn’t really work like that. He makes the executive decision to save his _frankly limited_ brain capacity for some other time, sluggishly walking up the stairs like someone that’s never seen stairs before in his life. _Ding dong, I’m so high._ So _high. Super duper._

He checks the time on his phone just to make sure May isn’t home. 7:31pm. She has that sort-of-late shift that still isn’t a night shift tonight, so she’ll probably be home around 9. That gives Peter an hour and a half to gobble down some food and shower before she gets back from work. The plan’s simple; _no getting caught under any circumstances._ That’s all he’s got to do, really. 

He snoops around the kitchen and settles for the last drops of yoghurt and a banana. It’s not like he can do much about the waning food supply since he’s spent all of his emergency-only cash on _drugs._ But what can you do, it’s not like food has ever or will ever feel as good as this. He empties the yoghurt into a bowl and breaks the banana in half, _no one ever died from eating a peel, right?_ He doesn’t think so. He doesn’t feel like finding out, either, and he’s willing to take his chances.

He dumps the now-empty bowl into the sink. The clang of the spoon and bowl colliding sounds tinny and weird when he has to make an effort to keep up with his surroundings like this. He grins. Peter’s senses are so delayed that he doesn’t feel the way his hip aches from walking into the edge of the kitchen counter until he’s splayed out like a starfish on his bed. 

_Woah, everything’s so slow and made of syrup._ There’s something he’s supposed to _write down,_ he knows. _Was that today? No, I wrote a thing down yesterday so it’s nothing to worry about. Using words more than once is excessive anyway. Words, words, words._ Looking up at the ceiling, there are so many cracks in the off-white paint that seem magnified in a way he’s never seen before. _I’ll write about those! That’s a long one, and that one to the right looks like a lightning bolt trying to dance. My ceiling is the fucking coolest._

Blinking a few times and looking around, _spinny spinny,_ he notices that the shadows in his room have moved. He’s _really excited_ about the fact that he can suddenly travel through time, but as the front door opens and he can hear his aunt unzipping her boots, it dawns on him that maybe he’s just lost track of it, and not actually traveled anywhere. Damn. Mister Stark would’ve been so impressed with him if he could actually do that.

“Peter? Are you home?” can be heard echoing through the apartment, then echoing again through his _head,_ and he does his best to actually listen. “How was working in the lab today?” He tries to think back to what they’ve actually done today, and can’t come up with a single thing. _Something about paper,_ he knows, but saying that out loud will probably sound really dumb. But May wants an answer, and it would be weird if he doesn’t leap at the chance of obsessing over anything Tony-related as he normally does. Acting nauseous did the trick last time, so he decides to try that again.

“We worked on the usual stuff,” he replies, and does his best to talk as if that frog’s back in his mouth. _Let’s act the shit out of this so I can pop another pill and just have a good time in peace._ “It’s best if you don’t come in here, I think I have food poisoning from lunch,” he says quickly as he sees her shadow moving right outside of his closed door. The hand pushing down on the door handle releases it again.

“Oh, my sweet baby, I’m so sorry. Did it come on right now? How long have you been feeling sick?” _Count on his aunt to ask a million questions._ He makes a noise to signify that it’s a kind of recent development, and he groans when she starts going on about how he should have called, and how she could’ve gotten off work earlier to take care of him.

“I’m _16,”_ he retorts, and makes a whining noise deep in his throat. She better fucking _stop talking,_ or he’s going to make himself sick for real, fingers in his throat and everything. Anything to make her stop yapping. He deserves some peace and quiet. “Could I be alone, please, May?” he says, and she issues a quick apology, footsteps on the creaky floorboards fading as she walks to another part of the little apartment. He can hear her speaking to Mister Stark on the phone shortly after, letting him know that Peter isn’t going to show up on Thursday. He distantly wonders if he’ll buy it. But that’s for another time.

And also, _showers are for pussies,_ he decides as he fishes the pills out of his denim pocket. He’s fresh as a god damn daisy. So there. He really doesn’t need one. At all. He puts the little plastic bag on the bedside table with a thwack, and eyes the Porg swimming in his vision before him. Lazy hands reach out, and he almost knocks it to the floor with how messy and _off_ his hand-eye coordination is. _Jesus fucking shit,_ he almost exclaims, catching the LEGO figure mid air. But that also gives him an idea. He’s ground a pill up in a smoothie, and he’s ingested a bunch as-is, but what about crushing one and _snorting it?_ That gets the chemicals to his brain much faster, right? Right. He’s a fucking _genius._

He wastes no time, almost tearing the bag open and picking out one Xanax with slightly damp fingers. He makes sure to cough as he slams the Star Wars figure down to mask the sound, pulverizing the pill trapped in between the two surfaces. _Perfect._ He gets out a dollar bill and does his best to smooth out the wrinkles. Rolling it into a cylinder takes a few tries with how useless his limbs are at the moment, and he finds it _so_ fucking funny. _Sausage hands._

  
He pulls the rolled-up bill to his face and bends down to the bedside table. Pushing the white powder into a little line, he’s in position. _Here we fucking go._ And he’s flying.


	4. Chapter 4

Peter realizes quickly that time doesn’t flow quite the same when he’s doped up to his ears on benzo. Since aunt May’s under the impression that he’s got food poisoning, he is left to his own devices when she’s on shifts at work. Only getting up from his position on the bed to take the occasional shit and snort some more benzos, he’s mostly blissed out on his bed. 

Moments that are over in seconds feel like they stretch out for an eternity, like how the raindrops outside of his window seem to stop mid air for him to observe before hitting the glass. They’re mesmerizing, and the pitter patter as they touch the surface comes at him like a shock wave. Longer stretches of time, however, seem to be over in an instant. As soon as May walks out the door she’s back, and the lights and shadows have moved  _ again.  _ It doesn’t make sense how one long-short moment can fit so many short-long ones, but it doesn’t  _ have to.  _

Peter’s floating, flying, soaring in the sky, and he barely notices when May pops her head in to see how he’s doing. He guesses he probably looks rough, with the sheen of sweat covering his whole body and eyes that feel drier than the Sahara desert. “You’re sick as a  _ dog,”  _ she points out one night, a few days later. And yeah, snorting two pills in the morning, two around lunch  _ and  _ two at night might be a little excessive. He admits it. And this “sickness” from whatever food he claims to have eaten has to pass  _ sometime,  _ which means he’s got to cut down on the dosage so he can go back to school and not be like a pile of putty all hours of the day.

He decides that Friday is a good day to cut down. Or start to, at least. Peter tells his aunt that he’s starting to feel better that morning, and that he’s going for a little walk around the neighborhood to clear his head after being cooped up in his room for three days straight. It’s not like he’s been  _ present  _ or  _ lucid  _ during any of that time, but going outside’ll be good for him. Definitely.

And  _ if  _ there happens to be a clandestine meetup with Tessa to score more yellows during the walk,  _ no one has to know.  _ Really. It’s all good. It turns out that her dealer has Adderall available now, and Peter somehow manages to talk her into selling it to him for a discounted price.  _ How  _ he does it, he’s got no idea.  _ I’m so fucking doped up I barely know my name,  _ he thinks, right before swallowing a pill. And, right, he’s supposed to lay off this for a bit. But there’s this rush, the anticipation making him feel all tingly.

When Tessa rounds a street corner and is out of view, Peter makes a beeline for the nearest alley, grabbing onto bricks and gaining enough momentum in order to get to the roof. He once made a promise, both to himself and his mentor, that he’d never ever use his powers without wearing the suit. And he’s  _ kept  _ it until now. But who could blame him? Peter just wants to chill above the city in peace, and it’s not like anyone  _ saw him  _ climbing up the wall. He looks at the pills in the bag again and rattles them. They’re not as yellow this time, he notices, but doesn’t give it much thought.

“Mister Stark needs to loosen up,” Peter says to himself, because it’s all going to be fine.  _ It’s all fine. _

And it  _ is,  _ at least for a little while. He cuts down to about four or five pills a day, alternating between Adderall and the Xanax that’s left depending on how much he feels like studying on the day. He makes sure to show up for his scheduled classes, only visibly slacking off in the library during lunch. Peter has a carefully fabricated lie in place whenever MJ and Ned ask him why he rarely comes with them to the cafeteria anymore;  _ there’s just sooo much to keep track of at the SI internship, sorry guys, I’ve got to work on this.  _ And they believe him, even if MJ’s eyes linger on him longer than necessary, sometimes. Peter kind of hopes she’s just assuming he’s out fighting bad guys when he should be sleeping, and not the  _ other thing.  _

He doesn’t check the quality of the work he hands in, just hammering something out and hoping he’ll get by anyway. People always tell him he’s talented and that his good grades aren’t just because he studies hard, so it can’t be that bad, surely. But he keeps up the appearance of working hard in class, at least, when he’s mostly staring at nothing and nodding at appropriate times, enjoying the buzz.

He always makes sure to never be on downers when seeing Mister Stark. He’s nervous as it is about getting caught, and at least he’s  _ focused  _ when on addy. The benzos make him want to just count those cracks in his bedroom ceiling again, and that’s of  _ absolutely no use  _ at Stark Industries, and not to mention, it’s also sketchy as hell.  _ But no worries,  _ he’s got things all figured out. So what if he sometimes takes a few extra pills?

Weeks pass, with Tuesdays and Thursdays at the compound flashing by at rapid speed. He enjoys being in the workshop with his mentor when he’s  _ up.  _ It’s still incredibly scary to be so close to being caught twice every week, but that only makes the highs  _ better.  _ And as long as he does a satisfactory job closing circuits and improving algorithms, he should be fine. Peter still gets praise for how detail-oriented he is.  _ Fuck yeah, I am.  _

After the new year, Tony’s away frequently on business trips to meet company shareholders, giving Peter room to experiment more with the pills, and he’s loving it. Happy doesn’t care, never checks in, so his mentor has  _ no clue  _ what he’s doing. For once, Peter is glad that Mister Stark’s way too busy to pay him any mind, just riding that euphoric high every minute of every day, week, month.  _ Happy must be thrilled I’m not spamming him like a cunt, making him want to shoot his fucking brains out with a handgun. _

All of that comes to a sudden end in late April. Wednesdays, as usual, are a relatively safe days for taking Xanax. On this particular Wednesday he’s decided to snort a few of them, along with a handful of addys for good measure, in the school bathroom during a break. It’s most likely way over his usual dose, but he’s a fucking  _ super hero,  _ he can take it.  _ I’m not some pussy.  _ He wipes the stray powder from under his nose and licks it off his fingers. It’s kind of chalky and gross, but he also  _ kind of doesn’t care.  _ He’s spent hundreds and hundreds of dollars on this by now, and he’s not about to waste it. That’d be fucking dumb as shit. 

He flushes the toilet he’s shorted the drugs off of so he can at least pretend he took a piss, again,  _ doesn’t care,  _ and feels his phone vibrating in his pocket as he’s unlocking the stall. That little pang of guilt after what he’s just done seeps back through the haze as he reads  _ Tony Stark  _ on the screen. An incoming call, it must be his Parker luck. Months of radio silence and then he’s just hitting him up  _ right now.  _ He reluctantly answers the call.

“Parker, hi, it’s me, the one and only.”

He almost,  _ almost  _ calls his mentor and childhood hero a  _ cocksucker  _ on the phone, but bites his tongue so hard he’s sure it’s bleeding, because why on god’s green earth would he say that?  _ Don’t do it, don’t do it, don’t do it. Be normal. Ask how his trip has been. Or more like  _ multiple  _ trips. Mine have been great, hah. Wow, I’m so hilarious. _

“Hello?” comes from the other end of the line, and he realizes after a moment that he’s left Mister Stark hanging for well over a minute.  _ Shit. _

“Oh, uh, hi Mister Stark, sorry sir.”

“So here’s the deal, Petey-pie. There’s something wrong with the Training Wheels Protocol and I need you to swing by with your bag as soon as school’s out, okay? It’s urgent.” Peter’s had quite a few  _ oh shit  _ moments in his life, but none compare to this one. Because here he is, already high off his ass, about to be  _ even higher  _ in moments. And Tony Stark wants him to come to the compound. To meet.  _ In the flesh.  _ He’s so screwed. Really screwed.  _ It’s more like a brutal ass-fucking. _

He’s about to ask if they can’t postpone it, at least for a bit, when another bombshell drops. “Update on that, I need you here right now, squirt, FRIDAY can’t find a stable connection. I’ll email Midtown and give you permission to be absent for the rest of the afternoon, Hap will meet you by the entrance in 15.” 

And with that, Mister Stark promptly hangs up. Peter is pretty sure that he would be panicking right now if he could. He briefly considers going back into the stall and sticking his spit slick fingers down his throat to make sure he won’t be completely incoherent when Happy picks him up, but ultimately decides that that would be some really fucking expensive vomit.  _ Can’t throw it away, I’ll just make sure to make rational choices and stay calm.  _

His first rational choice is to snag MJ’s sunglasses as he goes back to where his friends are loitering in the hallway to let them know Stark’s calling him in and that he will be leaving early. They sigh, mostly MJ, and he puts the sunglasses on with one hand as he gets out of sight, carrying his bio textbook in the other.  _ I really should invest in a new backpack.  _ He runs a finger under his nose an extra time just to make sure there are no visible traces of powder, before stepping out through the heavy doors. Sunglasses are a godsend, and he’s so damn smart for slipping them out of MJ’s bag on the way out. He’ll return them tomorrow, she won’t even know they’re missing.

As promised, a grim-faced Happy Hogan is waiting for him in the pickup zone, and Peter steels himself for the performance of his life.  _ Showtime.  _

“Hi Happy, thank you for picking me up,” he says as the car door is opened for him. The man doesn’t answer, but Peter thinks he hears a quick gruff.  _ Right.  _ Honestly, it’s kind of a relief to not have to hold a conversation right now, because he doesn’t know exactly when his already doped-up brain’s going to be hit with another wave, and he’d rather not be taken by surprise in the middle of a conversation.  _ That will probably be a bit hard to talk my way out of.  _ He gets into the car, determined to not break any traffic rules this time, and off they go.

The trip up to the compound’s about two hours by car, and he’ll be royally dazed by the time they get there. When the power lines and trees swishing by outside of the car become a mess he can’t really focus on, he knows it’s hit. And, to quote Tessa again, he’s feeling  _ real fucking good.  _ So good, in fact, that he gets the urge to tell Happy about it. He presses the button that rolls down the partition, and tired eyes meet his in the rearview mirror. At least he  _ thinks so,  _ but everything’s delayed and far away again so he can’t really tell.

“I’m so stoked, dude, sir, did you know that? I mean it’s such a beautiful day and can you smell that? It smells like a brand new car! This leather seat’s so soft, I want 50. I’d  _ suck the fuck  _ out of 50 cocks for a car like this.” 

“ _ Pardon  _ me?” Happy exclaims, and he sounds like he might be choking on his words a bit. Maybe he is, with the way the car swerves a tiny bit to one side and back again, making Peter’s stomach do a swoop like he’s on a rollercoaster. “ _ What  _ did you just say?” And  _ shit,  _ he’s not supposed to swear or use words like that.  _ Cunt, ah, fuck.  _ And Peter _ doesn’t, _ not really. But it’s just a bit hard to keep his brain-to-mouth filter working when he’s this high. Maybe it’s a bigger problem than he’s thought.  _ There’s not usually anyone  _ around _ when I get this fucked up. And there I go again. Damn it. _

He doesn’t think there’s much use in trying to persuade Happy to keep this a secret, there’s no way he  _ won’t  _ be telling Mister Stark about this the second they arrive and get out of the vehicle. He settles for “oh my god, I’m so f-, uh, really sorry,” and hopes that Stark might find it a smidge funny and won’t  _ fire him  _ on the spot. One can only hope. 

“You’ve got quite a mouth on you, kid,” Happy says. “What’s been  _ going on _ while we’ve been gone, huh? You joined a gang or something?” Peter laughs, and wishes that were true, because  _ anything  _ would be better than the truth.

“ _ Sir!  _ Definitely not. You don’t have to worry about that. Um. Like, at  _ all. _ ” The closest to a gang he’s ever gotten, apart from when he busted one back when he still  _ fought crime,  _ is Tess. Because she probably knows some shady people that supply her with the drugs, right? Those probably move in gang circles. Unless she’s been lying about all of that this whole time and is a Breaking Bad type chick in secret. It occurs to him that he’s sort of supporting organized crime by buying drugs,  _ oops. Spider-man would not approve.  _ But then he also remembers that he is, in fact, Spider-man himself. And that he’s put the suit on the shelf for quite a while.  _ Literally.  _

“Alright, whatever you say. Just-, don’t make it happen again, alright? I don’t know where you’ve got that kind of talk from but it does not belong at SI. It doesn’t belong  _ anywhere. _ ” Happy meets his eyes in the small mirror again for a short second, and Peter nods in understanding. His tongue’s still sore from when he bit it before, and he’ll bite it again before saying shit like that in front of  _ Mister Stark,  _ he won’t hesitate if he has to draw blood. He clenches his teeth around his tongue for a bit, as a reminder.  _ No inappropriate outbursts. _

The rest of the ride is thankfully spent in total silence. He almost rolls the screen back up at one point to get some privacy, but Happy doesn’t seem to be eyeing anything but the road, so he lets it be. Closing his eyes, he listens to the rumble of the engine.  _ This would be so chill if I didn’t have to see Stark in this state in less than 10 minutes,  _ he thinks.  _ Why does he have to need my help  _ today  _ of all days? _

As the Audi gets off the highway and approaches their destination, he wipes his clammy hands off on his pants.  _ Now would be a pretty good time for a miracle.  _ The car hits that last stretch of dirt road before finally stopping, and Peter does his best to take a deep breath. He can’t really remember how to do it properly, but it’s probably the thought that counts, like how it is with shitty Christmas gifts.  _ Hopefully.  _

Just like last time, Mister Stark opens the door on his side of the car, and he does his best to exit smoothly. “Well, we’re here, sir. And just a heads up, he’s turned into a little mafia boss while we’ve been away on business,” Happy says with a little smirk that tells Peter that he finds this  _ funny.  _ That fucker.

Tony looks at him from behind those same dual-toned Police glasses as he wore the last time they saw each other, and he can feel how his ears are getting hot as he steadies himself with one hand against the car. “A  _ mafia boss?  _ Is that so. What did you do, kid?” Peter knows that he can’t really see his eyes behind his own not-really-his sunglasses, but turns his gaze away. 

“I’ll  _ tell you  _ what he did,” Happy cuts off before Peter even gets a chance to speak. “Peter here has apparently adopted some incredibly foul language since last fall, and I almost  _ crashed  _ the car!  _ Please  _ tell me you’ll wash his mouth with soap. Or something, _ anything.  _ I just wish I could unhear what he said.”

“Dang, Spidey, now I  _ have  _ to know more. But if you’ve joined ‘em I know Iron Man will be disappointed. I’ve got my inside sources that say so.” He holds out a hand as a signal for them to move from the car and walk into the facility, winking at Peter while doing so. And delirious as he is, his response is, of course, to whip out fucking  _ finger guns  _ at his mentor. And then he half-stumbles forward, attempting to hide the fact that he can barely walk straight by breaking into a jog.

“I’m just really, really,  _ really  _ excited to be back!” he squeals, to further minimize suspicions that anything’s out of the ordinary. He isn’t all that sure if it works. But he isn’t sure of  _ anything  _ right now, so maybe it’s just fine. 

“Alright,” Mister Stark says, a twinge of confusion and  _ something else  _ in his voice. “You heard the kid, let’s rock and roll.” Peter realizes, as they walk through the lobby and continue through winding glass hallways, that his feet are suddenly too big for him to walk right.  _ Shit.  _ Or maybe they’ve been like this for a while but he hasn’t noticed. What’s he going to do if he can’t even make it to the workshop without stumbling? The sun reflecting in the spotless glass panels catches his eyes, and he groans out loud as a sudden wave of nausea hits him.  _ It’s too fucking bright.  _ He stumbles again, and catches himself against the glass. His hands and cheek leave a nasty, oily impression, and his breaths fog up the surface. 

Both Mister Stark and Happy reach out to help him regain his balance, but he just shrugs it off in a way he hopes looks sort of natural, and pushes himself away from the wall with arms that feel like overcooked spaghetti. “‘M fine, it’s fine,” he says quickly, maybe  _ too  _ quickly, and both of the men look at him like he’s stupid for trying. “Well,” he tries again, hoping that claiming he’s got food poisoning again might do the trick. “I might’ve had something bad for lunch? I feel a little nauseous. But it’s alright, I can still work.”

“I...didn’t think you could  _ get  _ food poisoning,” Tony says. And he’s  _ absolutely right.  _ But Peter’s still got to save his own skin somehow, so he sticks with it. No one looks convinced. This high sure is something else,  _ different.  _ All the other trips over the months have been pure bliss, but now he just feels like shit.

“Eh, same here, but are we just going to stand around here talking shit or are we actually going to get  _ work done  _ today?”  _ Fucking fuck, I just did it again.  _ He shoots them both an apologetic look, and Happy just shakes his head.

“Told you, the kid’s developed an  _ attitude.”  _

Happy veers off to somewhere else as they enter the workshop on the ground floor, leaving them to their own devices, and Peter’s both really really relieved and really really fucking scared that the real shit starts  _ now.  _ He clears his throat, imagining a fountain of filthy words and confessions seeping out if he’s not very careful.

“Now, kid, it’s just us two here, and I am awfully curious to hear what it was you told Happy earlier. We are both men here, so let’s hear it.” Mister Stark goes over to a workbench, sitting down on a stool with his arms folded. Peter swallows thickly again, and he  _ knows  _ that this is a bad idea. Because his mentor has a way of somehow making him talk about things when he’s not careful, and right now that isn’t even in his  _ vocabulary.  _

“Oh. Sir, I don’t-, I’m not sure if I should-,” he starts, but trails off before actually getting the sentence out. 

_ “No,  _ I’m  _ asking  _ you to tell me, I  _ want  _ to hear it. Come on, Shortstack, you think I haven’t said my fair share of offensive shit in my day? Whatever it is, it can’t be that bad. And I will wait right here until you spill.”

_ Ugh, he’s so fucking annoying,  _ Peter thinks, but opens his mouth before he can properly think it through and  _ this is how I die, this is it right here.  _ “I  _ said  _ that I’d definitely suck the fuck out of 50 cocks for a car like the pretty Audi out front.  _ There.  _ Was that what you wanted to hear,  _ boss?”  _ He knows that he’s sporting an attitude that isn’t something that anyone should have to deal with, but he can’t bring himself to care. Because he’s high, and Tony fucking Stark annoyed him  _ first.  _ The deafening silence that follows is something Peter doesn’t expect, because that man  _ always  _ has a witty one-liner ready to go.  _ Typical. _

Tony whistles. “Wow.” Leaning to the side, he taps the side of the frames on his nose, making a hologram appear over the workbench. “I admit that I didn’t see  _ that  _ coming from you. I’m curious to know why, though?”

“Um, I don’t know, it just kind of slipped out I guess.” Peter does his best to walk across the floor in an imaginary straight line, and does his best to look natural as he perches next to the stool closest to him, eyeing the hologram from behind his dark frames. It’s  _ difficult  _ to say the least, because if things were wobbly before, they’re definitely spinning now. He looks down at his hands and tries using willpower to make things steady. It doesn’t work.

“Kid. Eyes up here. Focus. And  _ please, _ take off those glasses.  _ I  _ don’t even wear sunglasses in the lab.” The fact that  _ his _ have some sort of built-in tech that removes the dark tint just pisses Peter off, if he’s being honest. Normally he’d be amazed and asking a thousand questions about it, but right now he just  _ doesn’t want to take his own glasses off.  _

He knows he’s got to bite the bullet at some point, and it might as well be now. He takes them off and flings them violently to one side. “There, gone.  _ Jesus. _ Happy now?”

“You need to watch your tone, and I mean it.” He pauses and squints. “What on  _ earth  _ happened to your eyes? They don’t look...right.”

“Can’t sl’p,” Peter mumbles, rubs a sweaty hand that doesn’t feel like his own over his eyes, and points back to the floating hologram, a silent cue to be given the details on the reason he’s  _ actually  _ here. 

“Alright. If you tell me it’s due to a lack of sleep, then it’s a lack of sleep. Because I trust you and you haven’t given me a reason not to.” He knows that Tony’s just telling the truth and not trying to make guilt churn in his gut, but Peter still doesn’t like this one bit. _I’m lying straight to his face, and if he ever finds out he’ll never forgive me._ He can sense that there are implications, though. Because Mister Stark may not suspect foul play _now,_ but as soon as he gets a sense that anything’s out of the ordinary in the _wrong_ way he’ll no doubt start digging. _I’d rather keep this buried as far down as possible. I’ll stop using on my own and no one has to know any of this ever happened._

To make his no-sleep lie sail a bit better, he decides to tack on an extra apology. Because if he shows regret, then maybe this will look better?  _ Now focus, stop swaying, and for god’s sake stop sweating, Parker.  _ “Um. There’s been a lot with school lately. Tests and sh-, uh,  _ stuff.  _ Yeah. I haven’t really been sleeping that much and there are so many deadlines so I guess my brain sort of decided that mentioning  _ genitalia to Happy  _ was the way to go?” Fuck, he’s rambling again. His mentor’s eyes seem to soften a bit though, so maybe it’s doing some good. “I am really really sorry, Mister Stark! If I know I overstepped and if I can’t keep the internship I totally understand, I just-”

_ “Peter,”  _ his eyes snap up as his jaw clicks shut. And, okay, maybe that wasn’t the greatest of ideas, because now the room’s spinning even faster and he has to cover his mouth with his hand to make absolutely sure he isn’t actively puking  _ right on the spot. _ “First of all, sit the hell down, kid.” He’s so unstable that Tony has to maneuver him onto that damned stool he’s been using as poor leverage. “You look a bit green around those gills and I don’t think Dum-E is in the mood to clean up what’s left of your lunch.” There’s an attempt at humor, but it falls flat as another wave of nausea comes over him. 

“Mm-hm,” Peter manages to squeak back, and if he weren’t in this state he’s be burning up from embarrassment. 

“Now, I’ll make this fairly quick since you’re...having a little  _ situation _ . I got back a few days ago and asked FRIDAY to give me the rundown of everything that’s been going on since I left. I asked  _ specifically  _ for the data from Karen, but the logs came up empty.”  _ Fuck, I am so screwed.  _ “I have tried rebooting both of their systems remotely and running extensive diagnostics, but there is still no data showing up on Karen’s part, and nothing to indicate that she’s malfunctioning. Has she been giving you any trouble lately? If you look up here,” he points to an empty spot in the dense sphere of information showing up on the holo screen, probably where his patrol data would be if  _ he did what he’s supposed to,  _ “I’m getting  _ nothing.  _ You haven’t tampered with the system, have you? Nothing out of the ordinary?”

He takes a deep breath. Tries to, rather. He can’t seem to make his lungs cooperate, and he  _ really  _ doesn’t want to fucking hyperventilate right now. Or throw up. Everything is turning on its axis again, but he tries to hang on to the seat. “Um.” The already pounding sledgehammer in his chest picks up the pace, and he does his best to sort through the noise in his head, ignore the building nausea, because he’s expected to give a coherent answer. “No, zero tampering. Nothing different.” Great, he’s told another lie. Not going out on patrol for months  _ is  _ out of the ordinary, and he knows it.

“I haven’t pulled up the news feed yet because I hoped you could clarify this for me, but if that’s the case then there must be something else. FRIDAY? Show me all relevant articles and clips between November through April, keyword Spider-man. No recycled material, only the new stuff. Pull ‘em up.” There’s a little chirping sound as the system buffers, but ultimately shows what Peter already knows it will. Or rather, what it will  _ not. _

_ 0 Search Results Found, Try Again? _

There’s a pause, but then Mister Stark tries refreshing the results. Still nothing. He scratches his beard for a bit before turning back to Peter. “I  _ did  _ find it odd that FRIDAY never once pinged me about the suit’s whereabouts or your vitals.” The look he’s getting isn’t cold per-se, but it’s one he doesn’t want.  _ I’m being scrutinized. Fuck fuck fuck. _

“Um, I-  _ yeah,”  _ he croaks out. “Totally weird.”  _ I’m a fucking idiot. If there’s a time in my life to string together an actual sentence it’s now. _

“Uh-huh,  _ totally weird  _ is right. Because you haven’t been  _ wearing  _ the suit, have you?” And there it is, he’s been backed into a corner with no way out. Because he’s been using Ned as a cover with May, and Spider-man as a cover with  _ Ned,  _ and he can’t just admit to lying about Spidey now because then Mister Stark will ask why he felt like he had to  _ in the first place  _ and what he’s hiding _ ,  _ and that’s what he doesn’t want to talk about.  _ Ever.  _ And Tony will no doubt ask around to see if the story checks out anyway, so he’s just got to roll with it.  _ Fucking fuck. _ Peter did tag along to some of Ned’s drama classes as a kid, and he prays that he has the adequate acting chops from observing to make his confusion seem believable. Well, he really  _ is  _ confused, too, but for a completely different reason.  _ Try disoriented,  _ he adds to himself. 

“What? Yes I have.” He sounds so  _ petulant,  _ like a child trying to blame their sibling for something they really  _ did  _ do. “I just-, okay, so maybe I haven’t gone out as much as I used to, so sue me. But I’m just so freaking tired all the time and there are so many assignments that need finishing! And I need to study if I want as much as a  _ shot  _ at getting into MIT, because I’ve seen how Flash is picking up his grades, and here I am doing kind of alright, but not nearly as well as I  _ should  _ be.” And, okay, all of that actually is true. He’s relieved that telling parts of the truth means that he doesn’t need any acting to sell it, but holy shit, he just said  _ all of that  _ out loud. He was never planning on doing that. At least he’s worked himself up over it enough for the nausea to take the back seat for a bit.

He can tell that Mister Stark is a bit dumbfounded, for the lack of a better word, because he goes still and looks at Peter like he’s got four heads. “Wait a minute, squirt. What I’m hearing right now is that you’re worrying about your grades and losing sleep over them, as if you  _ aren’t  _ the top student in your class. Let me ask you something. If you look around, do you see this Flash kid anywhere near the compound? Or at the tower?”  _ Of course he pauses for effect. _ “The right answer is that no, he isn’t here and he never  _ will  _ be, because here at Stark Industries we only employ the best and the brightest. That’s  _ you.” _

“But-” Peter begins to protest, as a bead of sweat runs down the side of his face, “but everyone else is improving so much and I’m just-, I’m stagnant. What if I never get any  _ better?  _ What if this is all I’ll ever be? I used to be so on top of things and now I’m just dumb Peter who doesn’t even get the fucking extra credit.” That brain-to-mouth filter seems to be turning off again but he can’t be bothered about the fucking cursing right now, damn it. Because he’s dizzy, nauseous, sweating like a pig  _ and  _ on the verge of crying. Great.  _ “Please  _ can I just go back to the city now, Mister Stark? I’m not feeling so good.”

“I’ll be the first to admit that I was not expecting ‘give Peter a pep-talk’ on my agenda today, so I apologize for not being at all prepared for this type of conversation.” He starts walking throughout the workshop,  _ slowly,  _ but Peter still has trouble keeping up the pace.  _ Having to lean on a grown man for support is so fucking embarrassing, I just want to ride out this nightmare-high in the Audi back to Queens and maybe puke my guts out into a bag on the way there. Oh what a pretty picture that paints. _

Tony, perceptive and kind as he is, underneath all the sass and grandeur, clasps a firm hand around Peter’s shoulders and shuffles him along towards the exit. He tells FRIDAY to shut down the hologram, and then continues speaking. “But I need you to understand that I don’t give a squat about whomever you’re so worried about, because Michigan would be so lucky if they got you, and they will.”  _ Has Mister Stark ever stood  _ this  _ close to me, like, ever?  _ Peter ponders. If he weren’t in such bad condition right now he’d probably have to restrain himself from jumping with glee because this is  _ almost  _ an honest-to-god hug.  _ But his voice is reverberating against the inside of my skull and if I don’t focus on my breathing properly I  _ will  _ pass out in a puddle of my own half-digested lunch. _

“Before I let you go,” his mentor says and turns towards him in a way that sends a whiff of cologne in Peter’s direction, “I need a few things from you. And don’t look so intimidated by those words, kid. To start off, I just want you to talk to your aunt May about your insomnia before you lose all your marbles, before you go nuts, and so on.” Peter thinks that  _ it’s a little late for that now, if you only knew,  _ and nods the tiniest bit. Yeah.  _ That’s actually a good idea. I’m meaning to cut down on the addy and Xanax, sure, but I can use this as a cover with her in the meantime. _ “I’m also going to need you to head by Bruce for some additional tests to track if there have been any developments in your DNA, because it’s either that, or I am going to have to exchange a few stern words with the cooks they’ve got on staff at Midtown.” 

That’s actually  _ funny,  _ and Peter snorts. “Yeah, you’re not wrong there. Did you know that-”  _ keep the food down, keep the food down, keep the fucking food down,  _ “-a large part of the student body actually found bits of plastic in their mashed potatoes one time? Yeah, it was wild.” He swallows a few times to keep the bile from rising in his throat, the cologne only making matters worse. 

Happy must come around some corner at some point, because he’s suddenly standing right there on the other side of the heavy workshop doors as they swing open. “Parker, you didn’t leave your belongings in the car after we arrived, did you? Because I can’t find your bag. And you obviously did not bring one into the facility.” It takes him a few seconds to remember that he lost it and just hasn’t bothered getting a new one, which strikes him as odd because  _ what would Mister Stark’s driver-slash-security detail want with my books?  _ And then it dawns on him what was  _ inside  _ of that same motherfucking backpack on the day that he lost it.  _ The laptop.  _ No matter what he’s been convinced for the last however-long they’ve been here,  _ this  _ is the moment he’ll die. He isn’t just faffing around with substances in a vacuum anymore, in a void where his actions don’t have consequences. Now he’s also directly involving the very person he’s trying the hardest to keep in the dark.

“I sure hope you did bring it like I told you, Pete, because I need your half of the decryption key to access Karen’s logs now that  _ disuse  _ has triggered the safety lockdown protocol.” Lockdown protocol? For the suit? Trust Stark to have one of  _ those.  _ The spiral of shame and anxiety starts up again, because Peter has very effectively locked his mentor out of his very  _ expensive  _ suit. 

“Uh. I- no, I didn’t- it’s not here,” he manages to get out, and he swears that the hands holding him upright tighten around him the slightest bit.  _ My head’s going to roll.  _

“What do you  _ mean  _ it’s not here? Why did you leave your bag at home in the first place?” There’s a deep sigh and some tension in his jaw that Peter interprets as ‘I am so done with this, I can’t even’. “Never mind, don’t answer that. I’ll have Happy drive you back to the city and I’ll meet you at the tower as soon as you’ve picked up the laptop. The old lab will handle reading the backlogged data on your vitals, and we can figure out what’s going on with the notified discrepancy.” 

“A...discrepancy? Why? And why not before?” Peter wonders, because surely there can’t be a discrepancy when he hasn’t even been  _ in  _ the suit? And doesn’t Mister Stark deal with FRIDAY’s notifications as they happen? In his defense, he’s been so out of it on pills for quite a while, so that might have changed without him noticing, who knows.

“These past two quarters have been busy for the company and thus for me, so forgive me for not having the time to be on stand-by as soon as you tangle yourself in your web, Spidey.”  _ A morsel of humor, how nice. _ Too bad he’s about to absolutely shatter that good mood. “The abnormal vitals were recorded quite a few months ago, but what was  _ also  _ recorded is that you directly went against Karen’s warnings. I would like to know what went on, and nothing tells the truth like vital and tracking data. Now, shall we?” Mister Stark holds a hand out in Happy’s general direction, silently stating that he doesn’t have all day, and Peter knows that he’s got to bite the bullet. He needs to, for once, tell it like it is.

“I lost it,” he simply says. His voice is shaking just as his hands are, and takes a half-step away from the two men. Peter just wants to get out of this situation, wants to crush up some Xanax and snort it up his nose so he can forget about all of this and stop feeling like he’s in fucking  _ peril.  _

“Alright,” his mentor says, oddly calm for the situation.  _ What’s going on?  _ “I’ll buy you a new one. So you’ve been keeping the computer under your mattress. That’s nothing to freak out about.” Ah. He doesn’t get it.  _ Take a deep breath. Ignore the fact that you’re rapidly losing the feeling in your hands. Just fucking say it. _

“No. The bag, with the laptop, it’s-, I lost it on the day you gave it to me.” 

There’s commotion, but all Peter can hear is a constant ringing in his ears. He isn’t really sure what’s going on at this point but Mister Stark is red in the face, and Happy seems to pull him to the side. His knees buckle underneath him as the energy he’s used to hold himself up, and  _ together,  _ runs out. He slides down the lobby wall, and everything suddenly feels so  _ heavy.  _ There might be upset exclamations of ‘what the hell is the matter with you’ and ‘do you even understand the amount of security codes you’ve violated’, but he can’t say for sure. Peter’s half-aware of his spider senses screaming and decides that he very much does  _ not  _ like this whole experience. Tony’s raised voice calms down for a moment, and Peter decides that this is the moment he should start apologizing profusely until the day he dies,  _ which could very well be this day,  _ he thinks, and opens his mouth. 

  
Instead of that, however, he heaves a few times, and then there are globs of spit and green-ish chunks of broccoli flowing down his chin onto his shirt.  _ This went about as well as expected,  _ he concludes, right before realizing that he’s somehow got some of that vomit blocking his airways while trying to inhale and can’t actually get any air.  _ Oh fuck, I can’t believe this,  _ he thinks as he’s uselessly writhing on the floor. Then there are two sets of hands grabbing ahold of him, pulling him upright. They’ve probably been too busy  _ screaming at him _ to realize he’s choking in time, though, because he knows the signs of passing out well by now, and thinks that  _ I wish I wouldn’t have to die during a  _ bad  _ trip, fuck all of this shit,  _ before Mister Stark’s face is losing focus and colors are swimming in his field of vision, pulling him under.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Hiya, I'm back with another chapter! I just have to say that I really enjoy writing Peter's internal monologue because throughout the chapters it's getting less and less "filtered", if you will :P 
> 
> And getting emails saying that I've got kudos / comments / love is honestly what spurs me on to write, so if you want me to put out chapters quicker I suggest telling me you want more lol :D


	5. Chapter 5

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I'm so sorry for being MIA for so many months, but who wasn't completely blindsided by the virus????? But anyway, here's that part I kNOW that many of you have been waiting for, muahaha
> 
> If you like this story, I appreciate your kudos and every single comment you leave me, I enjoy responding to your little messages so much! <3

Waking up isn’t at all what Peter’d probably expect if, you know, he were able to _think_ properly. Does he come to slowly? Does he maybe squint his eyes to shield them from the soft daylight coming in through the large windows of the med bay? _Fuck no._ His head is pounding as if someone’s hitting it with a sledgehammer, and the fluorescent lights seem to flicker in his sensitive vision. He tries finding a position that’s somewhat comfortable in the bed, but all that does is _spook_ him, because he catches sight of the door to the room opening, and _why doesn’t his spider sense_ warn _a guy like it’s meant to_? Well isn’t this just great.

_ My life is like a fucking bad movie.  _ Doctor Cho enters the room with a file, looking grim.  _ How fitting.  _ She hands the folder over to Mister Stark, who’s trailing behind her, and then she proceeds to swab the area around the inside of Peter’s elbow for a sample. Or, most likely,  _ another  _ sample in a long line of them, already analyzed and taken care of. Mister Stark sits down in one of the chairs next to Peter’s medbay bed, and looks at him like he’s expected to speak.  _ He probably wants a sincere apology or something. I don’t even know if I’m sorry. _

He knows fully well that trying to keep on lying about having food poisoning at this point is useless, because the test results don’t lie, and Tony’s probably so fucking disappointed in him after finding out the truth. And now Peter’s got to  _ explain himself  _ to them and he doesn’t know what to say. He’s the one that should have the answers and he’s got  _ nothing.  _ If he tries to tell them that it all actually started as some twisted form of research, he knows that they’re going to tell him that he ‘should’ve known better,’ and that  _ ‘of course  _ it’s addicting, it’s  _ drugs,  _ Peter,’ anyway. 

He’s backed into a corner and he doesn’t know how to get out of it. No matter what he says, there’s still going to be disappointment and  _ definitely  _ tears from May.  _ Fucking fuck, I don’t want her to know. I don’t want  _ anyone  _ to know, but that ship’s obviously already sailed.  _ This is just one more thing that Peter Benjamin Parker can’t seem to get right. Gets into Midtown? Struggles to stay an A student. Becomes a superhero? Almost gets crushed underneath a building. Tries to do a genuine science experiment? Well woop-dee-doo, he becomes a  _ drug addict.  _

“Helen here hasn’t told me what all of this is about yet, squirt.” And  _ mother fucking shit, why are things just getting worse? _ “I have it black on white here-,” Tony continues, and waves the overturned stack of A4 sheets around, “-but I want to give you the chance to tell me first. Whatever’s got you this out of balance, I want to hear it from  _ you.”  _

_ No you really don’t,  _ he thinks. The man makes sure to  _ not  _ glance down at the papers, and isn’t this just great. Now he’ll have to  _ watch  _ Mister Stark as he finds out what a filthy fucking liar Peter is. And that he has been talking out of his ass for  _ months,  _ no less _. _ It probably looks bad by just seeing Peter, sure, and Tony’s mind’s probably going wild with different scenarios while trying to decode him. But Peter knows that he, deep down, doesn’t  _ really  _ think that his almost-kid is on drugs, because that’d be really out of character for the Peter Parker that he used to be, the Peter Parker that Tony still thinks he  _ is.  _ It’s probably the very last option on The List Of Things That Could Be Wrong With Peter Parker, and Peter’s so angry at himself, that this is what he’s brought them to. That he’s seriously about to make Tony Stark’s nightmare a reality.

The room is quiet, apart from the woman throwing the cotton wad into a brightly colored container labeled ‘biohazard.’ He knows that his mentor is waiting for the answer that Peter’s trying to avoid giving him, and Cho’s probably steeling herself for the bombshell she knows is coming. He sort of wishes that she’d told Tony beforehand, when Peter was still out cold.  _ That way, I’d have had some time to process everything by now.  _ But that’s just not the hand he’s been fucking  _ dealt,  _ is it, and he’s about to face letting his kind of intimidating  _ recovered alcoholic  _ of a guardian down head on.

He opens his gross and  _ very dry  _ mouth to start making some meek excuse as a way to somehow cushion the long, long fall, but is interrupted by Helen gripping his arm. He only just now realizes that he’s shaking, and she asks him to please hold still as she tries to draw blood from his inner elbow. Peter murmurs “cunt” under his breath, without really thinking about it, and her eyes snap up to his. A few beats pass, before she asks him to repeat himself, voice noticeable colder than it was just seconds before. And  _ god, is everyone fucking  _ deaf  _ here or what?  _ “I said that if you weren’t such an _ absolute fucking cunt _ then maybe I’d hold still for you.”

And  _ fuck.  _ That’s not what he  _ meant  _ to say. His intention was to thank her for her excellent work, butter her up a bit and then maybe get her to postpone Mister Stark seeing the test results until after he’s figured out the game plan. But instead he’s now blurted out  _ that  _ aggressive string of words thanks to those damned frogs in his mouth, and judging by how quickly she’s suddenly filling the little vial with his blood, pulling out the needle, and then promptly getting the fuck out of there, he guesses that he’s created more problems than he’s solved.  _ I’m an absolute shithead and I can’t believe I’ve fucked up  _ again this soon  _ after just waking up!  _

“Parker,” Mister Stark addresses him, and  _ fuck  _ if that stern tone of voice doesn’t send a chill down his spine. Being lectured has never been one of his favorite things, with how afraid he is of being a fuckup. Obviously. “I don’t know what’s gotten  _ into  _ you, but this behavior stops right now. I get that you might use this kind of language among your peers, even if I don’t  _ condone it,  _ and I understand that you slipped up in the car. As I said, understandable. Who hasn’t said the wrong thing at the wrong time? But doing it here, deliberately and  _ repeatedly _ cursing out my _ staff? _ You’ve crossed a line, buddy, and I fully expect you to tell me what’s going on.” 

Peter can feel himself shrinking into the bedding.  _ Me and my motherfucking mouth.  _ Why  _ did I have to repeat it?  _ He’s pretty sure that he’s mentally pissing himself, however that would work, and bunches up the covers to his chest. He’ll start slow, by apologizing for the outburst. That’ll surely smooth things over slightly, right? Right. “Can I just-, I’ll, um, I’ll start by saying that I’m real fucking-,” and  _ fuck,  _ he’s not supposed to  _ say that. Try again.  _ “I mean, I’m  _ really sorry  _ that I’ve been using that language.” A breath. He sneaks a glance up at Mister Stark, and judging by his look, he’s thinking something along the lines of  _ yeah keep talking, you’re going to have to give me a little more than  _ that _ to get off the hook.  _ All Peter can think of is that corner he’s painted himself into. There’s no avoiding the real subject, it’ll all come out whether he’s the one admitting to it or not. “It’s, uh, things have been  _ changing.  _ For a few months. And, and-, I guess I never said anything because I didn’t know how? The thing is that I didn’t want to  _ bother  _ you and I’ve kind of sort of been-,”

Before he can actually get to the point, Doctor Cho enters the room again, and starts collecting the stray items left behind from when she stormed out. Tony’s apparently got a very specific thread he wants to pull on, because he stands up suddenly and asks “Did you find any DNA changes in the samples you pulled from him?” She shakes her head, and he looks, if possible, more confused. 

“No, I did not,” she replies. “But let’s just say that it’s everything  _ else  _ I found in his body that troubles me. Did you-, did you not  _ know  _ about this?” There’s an audible  _ rip  _ sounding through the room as Peter tears the covers in two, and  _ fuck these nerves for ruining textiles, honestly _ . “Both  dextroamphetamine and dextromethamphetamine are present ,” she states. “And I also found a  _ very  _ high threshold concentration of metabolites in his urine.”

That doesn’t actually  _ mean  _ anything to Peter, and Mister Stark seems to also have trouble figuring out what  _ threshold concentration of metabolites  _ could mean and if that dextro-whatever is  _ meant  _ to be in his body.  _ It’s not like he’s actually a medical professional.  _ But despite not understanding the words, Peter is really fucking sure that The Almighty Doctor is about to set the record straight. This is the nightmare he’s had ever since that first night at the party, this is that very scenario  _ come to life.  _ All these months sneaking pills into the apartment under the guise of seeing his friends, all these little carefully crafted lies heaping together into a giant mountain of  _ shame,  _ all of this effort, and it ends  _ like this?  _

“What I’m saying is that you need to help Mister Parker through some hefty withdrawals, and then get him treatment for his drug addiction.” 

A few more stitches and threads in the bedding pop as Peter rearranges the limbs he now doesn’t know where to place, and he is suddenly  _ very  _ interested in studying his own nail beds. Anything to not have to see Tony’s face as he realizes that the spiderling has become every last thing he hates. Peter’s pulse is so loud in his ears that he barely hears the man’s response, a low but determined “no.”  _ Of course he won’t keep me around after this, with how much I’ve fucked up.  _ “No,” the man repeats again, louder this time. “This can’t be right, you must’ve made some mistake with the samples.” What pains Peter the most in this exact moment is that Mister Stark looks so  _ sure,  _ that he’s not even entertaining the thought that this could actually be real for a  _ second.  _

“Mister Stark,  _ sir,  _ I can assure you that these tests have been conducted by several credible people on my team respectively, to ensure that this is a true positive and to prevent false accusations. It’s my duty to the  _ both  _ of you to inform you of the positive drug markers, but ultimately, sir, I can only offer professional advice from here, and his guardian is the one who needs to decide what treatment is best.”

_ Treatment.  _ There’s that word again. The only treatment Peter’s interested in now is a fucking  _ blow to the head,  _ thanks.  _ Someone knock me the fuck out so I don’t have to face the fact that he  _ knows. 

“Could you please give us a moment alone, if you don’t mind?” 

As Cho makes her final exit per Mister Stark’s request and closes the door behind her, Peter feels the way the entire world is tilted on its axis, _finally_ feeling how warped his reality has become, and the only thing he can do is bunch in on himself, attempting to slide in under what’s left of the blanket. There’s an uncomfortable silence filling the room, and he knows now that there is no undo button for any of this, not anymore. _This is going to follow me forever._

Mister Stark doesn’t run a hand over his goatee. In fact, he doesn’t show much of  _ anything  _ on his face, not a hint of sadness or even the anger that would be expected. Peter doesn’t know what’s worse, imagining Tony inevitably erupting like a volcano, or the way he’s almost making a  _ show  _ of turning the stack of papers the right side up, flipping through the pages without emotion. Almost carelessly, it’d seem, if Peter didn’t know with certainty that Tony Stark has a long and complicated history with addiction in almost all of its forms, that this  _ has  _ to stir up memories of things he’d rather not remember. 

“So,” he says, eyes on the paper. “It says here that you’ve been dabbling in ‘prolonged and heavy substance use,’ why don’t you elaborate on that?” He says it so fucking  _ casually,  _ as if he’s asking about the weather forecast.  _ It’s god damn infuriating.  _

Peter can sense the implied disappointment, the  _ you’re everything I distance myself from.  _ It’s not that fucking hard to figure  _ that  _ out, Peter’s mind supplies. But that still doesn’t change the fact that he doesn’t even really know how to begin explaining this behemoth of a vice, and how it’s somehow snuck into his life and taken it over completely.

“I’m-, I, uh, I,” Peter tries, feeling like a hostage in some dingy basement somewhere except it’s all his own fault and he’s technically both the kidnapper and the kidnappee. _Just say it,_ he urges himself. _You’ve already_ lost, _he already knows. Now you’ve just got to rehash the details. You’ve got this. Don’t be a fucking pussy._ And isn’t that a speech for the ages? “I only meant to try it once,” the kid murmurs, and takes a deep breath to still the heart that’s about to gallop right out of his chest. No more pretending. It’s all going to come to light either way, he might as well tell it _right_ before someone else tries to twist the situation, or worse, his _intentions._ Fuck the stuttering. Fuck his pride, or whatever it is he’s flushing down the drain. “It was just supposed to be a simple experiment.”

“An...experiment?” his mentor parrots. “I’ve got to admit, kid, that I don’t immediately see the logical connection between you doing a high school lab report and developing a  _ drug problem. _ And I’m  _ me.”  _ Cocky as that probably sounds to someone not familiar with the man, it’s  _ true,  _ Peter knows. Because there really  _ isn’t  _ a substantial argument that can be made for why he’s done all of this. He’s stolen cash from May to score, he’s climbed onto rooftops while high, and he’s  _ lost a superhero billionaire’s government property,  _ for fuck’s sake. There’s absolutely no way he can pull some magically redeeming quality out of his ass. And explaining  _ any  _ detail of this further is going to make things so much worse,  _ but it’s not like I have a choice or anything.  _

Pete takes a shaky breath in through his nose, pushes it out again in an attempt to calm himself down, and lets his hands flop into his lap in defeat. “I know that I have to tell you,” he pleads carefully. “But could you  _ please  _ let me finish before you butt in to lecture me and shi-, uh, stuff? I won’t be able to get through this otherwise.”  _ It’s time,  _ he thinks as Tony only gives a demure nod and scoots closer on the chair.  _ This is what it feels like on the way to the slaughter.  _

“There was this party last fall, right? This chick I’ve seen around some thought I needed to loosen up, so she gave me a pill. Addy. I wasn’t even going to  _ take  _ it, like, for real. I just accepted it because I was nervous and to not seem lame or whatever which is pointless, because it’s not like she even  _ goes  _ to Midtown anymore, which isn’t the point but still. Then I thought that hey, I’ve got this crazy pill that shouldn’t go to waste, so shouldn’t I try this one-time totally insane thing and, like, make it all sciencey and see what kind of shit it does to my powers? So I did.” There’s a pause, after which he adds, “And then I  _ guess  _ I did some more addy and some  _ also  _ fucked up things after that? It’s so blurry, I can’t be assed to remember.” And then he whispers a  _ sorry,  _ because the brain-to-mouth filter still doesn’t seem to be working correctly. 

Now Mister Stark  _ does  _ rub his hand over his chin, and it’s obvious to Peter that his outings as Spidey while also going down the slippery slope of drug addiction doesn’t sit well with him.  _ Go figure. _

“Last fall?” Tony fished out his phone from a pocket in the fancy dress pants he’s wearing, summoning his AI with a flick of the wrist. “FRIDAY. Show me all logged patrols between September ‘till now.” Double digits are shown in the space between them, but Peter can’t be bothered trying to read the numbers backwards from where he’s laying. It’s too much effort in this state, growing more nauseous by the minute, and his face red hot with embarrassment. “Hm,” Mister Stark then hums. “That’s remarkably low. But considering this  _ new habit _ of yours, I certainly get why it’s tapering off in frequency. I’m assuming that Karen’s been alerting you, advising you to not use the suit per the safety protocol in place? Because I got a few pings from your suit regarding your vitals, but they were retracted before I got a chance to actually read the messages.”

Yes or no questions feel more manageable, Peter can definitely get through this cross examining slash lecturing much easier if there isn’t as much pressure on him to  _ speak.  _ He nods. Mister Stark continues: “You instructed Karen to not send me important notifications about your wellbeing at startup, didn’t you? I  _ know  _ you know that those measures are there for a reason, Peter. Did you do  _ any _ of these rides around the neighborhood while high?”

_ I really don’t want to fuck things up even  _ more  _ by answering that question. I’m completely fucked.  _ “Mister Stark, I don’t think I-,” he starts, but he’s promptly interrupted.  _ He can probably tell that I’m just about to blurt out a bunch of shit that makes no fucking sense to save my own skin. I’m that awful now. I’m rotten all the way through. _

“Aha, so you did.” It’s not even a  _ question.  _ “How many times, then? Twice? Three times?” he inquires further, and the kid imagines how his parched mouth and tongue,  _ dry like the fucking Sahara desert for fuck’s sake,  _ are glued together, making him unable to speak.  _ I haven’t felt this nervous since before I started taking addy.  _ “Come on, kid, you know I’ll just override the system and see for myself if you don’t tell me, for your own good.”  _ God, I need a pill. A  _ pill  _ would be for my own good.  _ He lets his eyes flicker around the room instead of landing on Mister Stark.  _ Anything  _ to not have to see that face contorting in disappointment. It’s as if the seconds are ticking by  _ really fucking loudly  _ in the room, filling the stubborn silence. And maybe they  _ are,  _ the hands of a watch moving fraction by fraction somewhere in the building, only it’s so hard to tell when all of his senses are focused on driving him to  _ more drugs.  _

“If I phrase it like this, then, to make it easy on you. Were you  _ ever _ sober?”

Peter knows there is moisture gathering in the corners of his eyes, now clenched shut in a way that has him seeing stars and distant galaxies behind his eyelids.  _ Don’t fucking cry, don’t fucking do it. Just give him the answer.  _ He’s not allowed to patrol for a while after pulling all-nighters in preparation for a test, with Tony concerned that the lack of sleep could negatively impair his decision making, so Peter is not exactly preparing for a fucking party. “No,” he whispers shakily, as those damn tears make their way through his lashes and down his cheeks. He almost feels hollow, because now there’s absolutely nothing left for him. No Spider-man, no lab time, and no pills. He has effectively killed any and all chances of that scholarship to MIT. If he felt behind in the race  _ before,  _ he isn’t even on the starting block now.

Mister Stark tenses up in the chair, asking the next question even though it’s obvious he already knows the answer. “Did you ever come to the tower while under the influence, before today?” 

“Um, yeah, the-, um, that time we did that huge diagram thing? And you gave me the computer?”  _ I’m so fucking over this grilling, man.  _ “But it isn’t that bad, right? So what, I popped some pills before showing up and I popped some more right after. Big deal.” Peter’s starting to get more pissed off, because he’s  _ fifteen,  _ not a child. Does he have no right to do what he wants with his life? Apparently Mister Stark doesn’t share this sentiment, because his eyes seem to be bulging out of his head as he stands up so fast the chair he’s seated in goes tumbling to the floor with a loud clang.  _ Fucking ow. _

“You-,” Tony shakes his head, almost in disbelief. Or maybe it’s rage, who knows. “Let me get this straight. You show up to my tower high as a kite, in a lab with dangerous equipment, I might add, and then proceed to leave with, and  _ lose,  _ a laptop that contains part of the decryption key to a highly classified program. And then you call it  _ no big deal?  _ Does  _ any _ of that sound right to you? Do you have  _ no shame?”  _

“I’m sorry, I just-,” Peter tries, not actually sure how he should finish his sentence.  _ I don’t feel guilty for taking Adderall and Xanax, what I feel bad about is not being  _ honest  _ with Mister Stark. And losing his shit and all that. _

“I don’t know how to tell you this, Peter, but an apology isn’t going to fix the problem, buddy. That will not be enough to negate the fact that  _ billions  _ will now have to be spent in order to clean up after you.”  _ Fuck,  _ everything sounds so much worse when put like  _ that,  _ jeez. Whenever he’s imagined this confrontation in the past, it’s always been big and brutal in his mind. But it’s always,  _ always _ ended with Tony accepting his apology, albeit being a bit disappointed still, and things going back to how they were before. Never in a million years has he actually considered the  _ real-life consequences. _ “I know it isn’t what you want to hear, you want me to tell you that everything’s  _ just fine  _ and that nothing really has to change. But you’ve been doing a whole lot of damage by using and lying, kid.”

“I never fucking lied!” comes out almost in a  _ shriek,  _ with how wound up he’s getting. “I just didn’t tell the whole truth, is that a fucking  _ crime  _ now?” Now there’s anger clearly visible on the man’s face, and Peter  _ knows _ he’s in for a fucking Bible-length lecture. 

“Well you came to the tower and the compound multiple times while this was going on, and you’ve been out as Spider-man countless times while doped up to your eyeballs! It doesn’t matter what you did or didn’t tell us, the fact remains that you have actively endangered not only your own life, but the lives of others while doing god knows what.”

“But nothing  _ happened,  _ okay! It’s not my fault that you’re all skittish and shit! I can handle it myself, believe it or not. I. Didn’t. Lie.” And,  _ oh,  _ he’s somehow started putting the blame on his mentor, which really isn’t going to help his case here.  _ Well shit. _

“Having access to the facilities and being Spider-man, those things are  _ privileges.  _ You can not do things like this and also expect to avoid facing the consequences. You’re an enhanced minor taking prescription drugs illegally, which means that  _ every single time  _ you step foot inside this building while under the influence you’re in breach of at least half a dozen security codes. So  _ no,  _ I really don’t care whether  _ you _ think you lied or not. Did you seriously think that you could go on like this? You falling unconscious on the marble floors in the lobby is not even remotely good, but believe it or not, it’s probably one of the  _ better  _ ways this could have ended. Could you even  _ imagine  _ how the ferry incident would have played out had you been using at the time?”

Peter shudders, ill at the mere thought of that clusterfuck, and he also  _ really  _ fucking needs another hit right about now.  _ I barely made it  _ with  _ the help of Mister Stark’s nanobots.  _ He scoots down on the bed again, the anger and fight leaving him just as quickly as it arrived. He uses the back of his hand to wipe angry, hot tears and snot off his face, while being as careful as possible to avoid disturbing the IV pumping him full of  _ whatever.  _ The Ferry Incident,  _ with capital letters for the most effect, of course,  _ is something he doesn’t like to think about. Obviously. Almost getting ripped in two followed by an earful from his hero? Yeah, not his best memory. He shudders. He isn’t sure he’s remembering the details correctly since he’s kind of got trouble recalling details on drugs, but Pete’s  _ at least _ 80 percent sure that a do-over with drugs in the mix would be disastrous.

“Look. Regular Peter,  _ sober Peter, _ is a reliable kid. He shows up on time and does amazing work both in and out of the spider suit. He’s kind almost to a fault, and puts the needs of others before his own. But  _ this  _ Peter?” 

“What  _ about  _ me?” he responds, petulant and also kind of annoyed that Mister Stark is insinuating that there’s a  _ difference.  _

“It’s like you’re a completely different person, and quite frankly, I am scared for you. Both when thinking of the situations you could have ended up in if you  _ hadn’t _ dropped like a rock earlier, but also when it comes to the road you’ve got ahead of you. If you think being here with me is the worst of it, bearing all your sins while most likely developing the withdrawals from hell while you’re at it, you’ve got another thing coming. Excuse my French, squirt, but recovery is  _ shit,  _ plain and simple.”

“You think you know me  _ so well,  _ don’t you?” Peter says, voice lilting in an almost cruel way. “Just because you got stoned back in the day and got a new personality and shit, doesn’t mean that  _ I’m  _ going to be all fucked up like you were! I’m a  _ fucking delight,  _ you cunt.”

“Alright,” Mister Stark says, looking almost bored even though he’s clearly seething. “I’m  _ done  _ with you and your foul mouth, Parker. Whatever reason you feel you have for this behavior, I don’t want any part of it.” He moves towards the door, stopping right before stepping out into the hallway. “I am revoking all of your privileges  _ immediately,  _ and that includes getting to take the smart watch off. I called your aunt, who’s on her way.” And  _ fucking shit,  _ Peter forgot all about her in the midst of facing Tony. “As soon as she gets here, we’ll discuss the option you have.”

“Wait!” the kid exclaims, confused. “Isn’t that-, don’t you mean  _ options,  _ as in, like, plural?” Tony looks back at him,  _ almost  _ amused. 

“No. You’re going into the program.”


	6. Chapter 6

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> ...so....this happened. I honestly can't say I'm even sorry, I just love me some angst hehe
> 
> Is this how you imagined it happening, or am I totally ruining this for you >:) I've been going back and forth editing and removing and adding bits and pieces of this chapter ever since I started this fic A Fucking Year Ago,,,,, hhhhhHHhH (well ok it's been divided into "events" as you can probably tell, and each event's tweaked until its roughly 6k words, fit for a chapter). I did struggle a bit with portraying how Pete's sort of torn between wanting recovery (at least for a bit) and feeling like it's forced upon him, but I hope I did an alright job???? GIMME FEEDBACK PLS *uwu emoji here*
> 
> (Also, I love you for sticking with me for a year of sort-of-slow updates and bookmarking and subscribing to this story?????? Aaaaaaaa)

“Hi. I’m Peter.” He knows he’s mumbling and barely audible, but he really, really isn’t up for this. Sitting in a circle on a weekday morning like he’s in kindergarten, surrounded by other people as fucked up as he is, searching for  _ serenity  _ or whatever; he’s so not vibing with this. Everyone’s at different steps, as they like to call them, but by the look of things, Peter’s pretty sure that he’s the only one here with less than twenty hours sober, itching for some xanny bars. The group leader motions for him to continue, and he knows what he’s supposed to say, he’s supposed to declare himself an  _ addict,  _ state how long he’s gone without the pills.  _ I’m not a fucking druggie,  _ he thinks, and he lets the group know. “I don’t-, I… I’m supposed to say that I’m an addict, right? That’s what you want? But the thing is that I’m  _ not,  _ okay? It’s not a  _ problem  _ problem. So I fu-, uh, messed up once and passed out, I know, and it  _ sounds  _ bad, but it was an  _ accident.” _

The lady, dressed in a shawl and pant suit, doesn’t look irritated with him, doesn’t call him out on the fact that he’s been a  _ filthy fucking liar _ since the moment he crushed that first pill in his bedroom all those months ago. “Alright,” she says. “I’m going to list a few scenarios, and I want you to tell the group if you’re familiar with them, okay?” Peter nods, not really sure what she’s getting at and why she doesn’t push for him to admit it. “Have you ever withdrawn from friends or loved ones in favor of getting high?” He nods slowly, thinking of the times he’s lied about being sick just to escape May and Mister Stark’s scrutiny. The times he’s told May he’s hanging out at Ned’s place, and told  _ Ned  _ that he’s out fighting crime. “Have you ever operated heavy machinery under the influence?” He has to curb his confusion for a second, because he  _ doesn’t drive,  _ but remembers that swinging while high is sort of the same thing. Which he’s done multiple times.  _ Oops.  _ He nods again. “Right. Have you ever intended to pace yourself, meaning you’ve meant to take either a small amount or none at all, only to end up significantly more inebriated than you set out to be?”  _ Yeah, I have. Fuck.  _ More questions follow, about extracurricular activities and hobbies tapering off  _ (check),  _ grades dropping  _ (check),  _ not stopping the behavior even though negative consequences follow more often than not  _ (check),  _ and damage or loss of property  _ (check, billions of dollars worth).  _

“But,” he tries, “those are only, like,  _ one time things!” _

The lady, annoyingly named  _ Hope  _ according to the name tag _ ,  _ adjusts in her hard plastic chair. “I understand that it can seem that way from your perspective, as if they’re  _ isolated, _ but you have to look at the bigger picture. All these instances or  _ incidents  _ put together, whether they are recurring or not, reveal a pattern that’s  _ very  _ consistent with stages three and four of substance abuse, more commonly known as the severe stage. If something impacts your day to day life significantly in a negative way, it’s classified as a problem behavior.” The others in the circle nod in silent agreement, and Peter doesn’t want to  _ hear  _ this. He wants to storm out of those double doors and continue his fucking  _ problem behavior,  _ but he knows that he can’t. Tony and May are in a sleek Audi right outside the only available exit, prepared in case he tries to bolt. And if he knows the man, Happy’s probably less than a block away surveilling, as well.

“Now, to not leave Peter here feeling like he’s hanging out to dry, let’s go around the circle, each person giving one example of how getting out of active addiction has improved your lives, shall we? Let’s start to my right. Monica, go ahead.” This is where Peter zones out, not interested in how someone urinated on a cop car in public and got arrested, or used their kid’s entire college fund to buy blow. At the end of it, he’s got a white key tag saying ‘WELCOME’ clutched in his closed fist, twenty-something hours sober, and he can’t  _ wait  _ to get out of here before Hope tells him  _ just for today  _ one more god damn time. _ Narcotics Anonymous can go fuck itself. _

“How’d it go, baby? How was it?” May greets him as he slides into the car and the engine revs to life. He wants to fucking wring her neck for asking the most stupid question he’s ever heard, naturally. A little voice tells him that she only wants to help, but what good is keeping him sober,  _ also known as feeling like shit,  _ going to do? Peter can’t blame her, can he, when she’ll never understand the fucking devastating  _ loss  _ of finding solace in the highs, room to breathe, only for it to be ripped away. 

Peter’s fucking furious with the two of them. They’re taking away his only lifeline, condemning him to a life void of privacy. He’s sweating through his shirt,  _ again,  _ itching for some pills.  _ And they think that cheeseburgers are going to fix this.  _ On cue, his smart watch chimes, FRIDAY letting him know it’s lunch time.  _ As if anyone’d let me  _ forget  _ it,  _ Peter thinks. 

Mister Stark lets out a cheery “ah, right on time!”, changes lanes and slows down when entering the line to the drive through. The Burger King menu taunts Peter, tells him that ‘hey, these are all of the greasy options we have for you, which one of them is it that you’ll want to spew up the most in about fifteen minutes when the shakes and nausea become too much to handle, huh?’ He doesn’t have a choice anymore, no autonomy. Because the three of them are  _ getting  _ the burgers, and he’s expected to  _ eat,  _ too. It’s all pre-planned like he’s just a robot going through the motions.  _ I might as well be at this point,  _ Peter sulks as Mister Stark pays and gets the greasy paper bags.

They don’t leave the car to eat. His aunt and mentor make a show out of pretending that this is some nice and spontaneous road trip and not the Training Wheels Protocol on steroids. Because Peter has been under a magnifying glass since the very moment he woke up this morning, finally out of that hospital bed; the reinstated common area at the tower where he’s now meant to live, apparently, has been quartered off to make sure Peter won’t be able to leave without Tony or Happy chaperoning him, his belongings have been searched and confiscated, and he has just been driven to an NA meeting under strict supervision, so how is any of this supposed to  _ feel natural?  _ It’s so fucking forced that it makes him want to gag. He doesn’t even get to keep his own phone, having it replaced by one that restricts messaging and social media completely, only allowing communication with a few select people.  _ It’s embarrassing. _

“Hey, earth to Peter, what’s going on in that noggin’ of yours?” breaks him out of his _completely justified_ sulking. Mister Stark has unbuttoned his suit, chomping on his burger and fries while apparently going for the chilled-and-totally-not-forced vibe that Pete’s definitely _not feeling._ “You never did say what the meeting was like.” There’s not really any point in lying, the game’s already been lost, and he knows that the only way he’ll get Tony off his back is to answer the question and to _be honest._ But he’s pretty sure that no one’s going to like that. But it’s whatever, if they want that they’ll get it.

“Yeah, I got this fugly thing,” he says, holding up the key tag and spinning it around his index finger. “I hate it and that was the  _ best  _ part of the hour.” Mister Stark sighs and pins him with his gaze. It’s uncomfortable. He doesn’t like this new version of things, the way he’s forced to share intimate details, things that he might not even be ready to admit to  _ himself  _ yet. That stare goes right through him every time, pulling things to the surface that he’d rather keep under wraps. 

He’s spent so long hoping for a close connection, a truly  _ personal  _ connection with his mentor, something beyond suit tech and occasional pats on the back accompanied by “good job, kid.” But he’s never wanted it to be  _ this.  _ Never this. It’s a strange feeling, finally getting the undivided attention he wants the most, only for it to be warped and twisted into a thing so painful he can’t meet anyone’s eyes when they look at him. 

“Oh honey, surely it wasn’t that bad?” May tries from the back seat. “Maybe you just need to give it a little time, hm?” She gives Peter a light squeeze on the back of his neck, and he flinches away without meaning to. He’s never been one to shy away from physical contact, but he really can’t stomach that,  _ too,  _ today. His aunt looks hurt by his dismissal, but gains back her composure after swallowing down a few more fries. “Sorry, baby, I didn’t think you’d be uncomfortable. I just-, Pete, I wish you’d  _ talk  _ to us.” 

Peter sighs and looks down at the barely-eaten burger in his own lap. He chews on his lip a bit while mulling it over. “No, May, please. I don’t-,” he can’t find the words. He genuinely can’t see a way of picking up the pieces after what he’s done, can’t see how there’s any possibility of getting back to that  _ before. _ “I never-, I didn’t think it would  _ hurt this much,”  _ he admits, because he never expected there to be so many feelings involved and  _ intertwined  _ with his drug use. He feels protective of it, like it’s something sacred that must be clutched close to his heart.  _ I can’t bear losing anything else in my life, at least I could feel a sense of control with the pills.  _ “I just wanted to feel in control for a little bit.” 

He sneaks a glance at Mister Stark. He’s seen smugness on that face, many many times for as long as he can remember. Always there like a mask, staring back at him through the television screen or in the newspaper clippings he used to stick on the fridge as a kid. He’s seen the features contorted by anger and frustration, as well as almost child-like wonder. But Peter has never seen anything close to this on Tony’s face; sorrow and something akin to grief. It hits him right in the chest, how  _ affected  _ everyone around him must be by this. 

“Christ,” he can hear from his left, along with a gasp from May in the back seat. “I can’t help but feel like I’ve failed you, and I’m truly sorry. I could have done this whole mentor-mentee thing better, in hindsight. I have also never been one for good apologies, so I’m sorry for  _ this,  _ too.”

“It’s fine,” he responds, too fast and without thinking. “Well, it’s not  _ fine  _ fine, obviously, but it’s...it’s not your  _ fault,  _ okay? Like, I lied and went behind you back, both your backs. I deliberately hid all of this, I  _ planned  _ to make sure you wouldn’t find out.” Peter wonders how things would have panned out had Stark Industries not needed Tony to travel at the end of the year, if Happy had returned his calls.  _ Would he have noticed when I started to spiral if he had  _ been  _ there?  _

“There is no excuse, Peter, I should have known. I haven’t been around enough lately to get the full picture, to see the signs that I recognize from being in your position when I was younger.  _ I _ am the one that should have spotted the red flags from miles away, but I didn’t. And I take full responsibility for that, that’s on me.” There’s a pause, and then he turns to May. “I apologize to the both of you, I haven’t been the easiest to contact and I feel like that’s maybe...maybe it exacerbated things? I have a responsibility to take care of you, squirt, and I give you my word that I  _ will  _ do better.”

That makes Peter feel a smidge better. Not that he’s at all positive about this whole  _ meeting  _ thing at all, and much less so the  _ sobriety  _ thing. May’s dropped off at the apartment to gather her things for her next shift, and says goodbye. He gets this little spark somewhere deep in his chest while watching other cars go by, something not-awful bubbling underneath the surface like  _ maybe things will actually turn out okay, maybe I’m not going to be completely alone in this? _

That spark lasts all the way to the elevator leading out of the underground garage at the tower, swiftly squashed when Mister Stark announces that he’s going to spend a few hours down in the workshop, effectively leaving Peter all alone and isolated on the one floor he’s got access to, FRIDAY as his babysitter and the only link to the outside world. 

He’s got some sort of  _ recovery schedule  _ on the damn watch he’s now stuck with, realizing this after getting his third notification saying  _ Snack Break  _ in two hours. He doesn’t have much to do anyway, so he reluctantly goes to bite into an apple. He can’t stand it. It’s only day one of this and it’s already got him wishing they didn’t remove the steak knives from the block on the kitchen island.  _ At least Mister Stark isn’t hovering,  _ he thinks, and finds it kind of funny that his idea of being a better mentor is to  _ leave him alone,  _ just like before. 

‘A few hours’ turn into the next morning, as Mister Stark doesn’t come back until 8am, hair sticking out in interesting directions and an empty coffee cup clutched tightly in his grip. These are clear indications that he’s worked through the night again, and Peter supposes that old habits die hard. It’s what he’s used to after all, so who’s a kid with addiction to break that streak?  _ I guess he’s got important things to do, and I’m  _ less  _ so. No surprise there. _

“I didn’t mean to turn that into an entire night thing again, kid, I’m sorry. I just  _ had  _ to get one last bit done before the weekend, but now I’m all yours. Promise.” He walks over to the couch where Peter has spent the early hours of the morning sweating and fighting nausea, the bucket still at the base of the coffee table evidence enough. There’s a few moments of silence as Peter wobbles up,  _ still nauseous, thank you very much,  _ and empties the bucket in the sink.  _ Good luck to the next person expecting to cook here.  _ Maybe Tony expected him to just...have an alright time watching Star Wars and playing cards alone, not thinking that withdrawals would still make things difficult? Or maybe he forgot to think at  _ all,  _ his business mode taking over completely, reverting back to his usual habits. Either way, Pete’s been  _ miserable.  _

“Well  _ shit,”  _ is what he comes up with. Very creative. “I just don’t want another night like tonight, please?”  _ Am I about to ask him if he can stay with me? I think I am.  _ “Would it be cool if you stayed? It gets kind of lonely when I only have FRIDAY telling me what I’m not allowed to do.” 

“Kid,  _ of course.”  _ The man sits down on the couch next to him, looking sheepish. “I didn’t think. You want to watch something to take your mind off everything?” Peter nods. He’s only watched a movie with Mister Stark once before, it was nice. “It’s going to be okay, all of this. You just need to trust that on time, things get easier.”

And it  _ is _ okay occasionally he supposes, as the hours, days and weeks pass by. But it’s never  _ good.  _ As the withdrawals fade, they’re replaced by the insatiable hunger for another high. May comes over on the weekends when she doesn’t have a shift, giving Mister Stark some time to sign documents and take conference calls on his tablet. Peter and his aunt bake a lot, trying out sourdough bread and bagels and the apple crumb pie that reminds May of her childhood. It smells good, tastes good, too, but all he can think as he’s grating in the nutmeg is how much he wishes he could crush up a couple of pills in the bathroom maybe. He never  _ says  _ that, though, because for all that honesty’s worth, he doesn’t want to let them know just how much he’s still got cravings.  _ It’s constant.  _

Those fucking  _ Compass Health Group _ ads still taunt him on the subway commuting to and from the meetings. He’s somehow managed to convince Tony and Happy that he’s okay to ride the train, alone, with FRIDAY watching over him, of course. If he as much as gets up to change seats for no reason or deviates from the usual route between the destination and the station, she’ll rat on him  _ so fast,  _ so he reluctantly stays put all the way like a good boy. Knowing Tony, he probably gets location info every few minutes anyway, so Peter just has to play along.  _ For now, at least.  _ There’s a plan brewing, but he needs to make it seem like he’s genuinely settling into this new routine first in order to game the system.

He’s searched regularly after coming back from a meeting, occasionally returning with another stupid key tag in a new color. There’s  _ no way  _ he could score on the way without being busted, so he finds these searches unnecessary. There’s a little ceramic bowl on the left of the fancy coffee machine, now containing the latest addition of colorful plastic,  _ NA  _ stamped in foil. White, orange, green, red.  _ Ninety days.  _ He tries not to think about how it’s slowly and surely filling up, his grief growing each passing day as he resides in the void. This isn’t  _ before,  _ nor is it the new Peter Parker. Right now he doesn’t really exist. Everything’s standing still, even though everyone around him keeps saying that they’re so proud, that he’s making progress.  _ Progress towards what?  _ He wants to ask. He’s going through the motions and tells them  _ just enough  _ to make sure they think he’s telling the whole truth. He spins lies like,  _ of course I feel the urge sometimes but I can distract myself, I don’t miss being out of control.  _ But what they don’t seem to get is that he wasn’t  _ out  _ of control before, he was actively holding on to it. It’s now that Peter feels lost, trapped between the two versions of himself that don’t seem to want to merge together.

So what if he spends his life a bit loopy? That initial drive to get sober he had for, like,  _ a few hours  _ past his first NA meeting is barely a memory now, close to triple digits of sober days under his belt. No amount of baked goods or tech talk or meetings of Hope telling him that it gets easier can make him forget that he’s grieving.  _ I just want relief.  _ MIT seems like a distant pipe dream now, not even half as attainable as it used to be a few months ago when he hadn’t taken a dive in the lobby yet. He used to think that a life sans drugs wasn’t worth anything. Now, 90-something days into it, he knows  _ for sure. Is this my life now? If feeling sober feels this shitty, I might as well get high. _

There’s absolutely no deviating from the plan that they’ve made for him to ensure that he doesn’t come anywhere near any substances, and if Peter wants to sneak off alone,  _ without being watched by a string of fucking code,  _ he’s got to make the AI think he’s alright to do so. He’s lost weight due to lessened appetite when he was actively using, has gone down from 142 pounds to just about 115. The meal plan he’s forced to follow in order to not keel over due to exhaustion and lack of nutrients is yet another thing he doesn’t have any say in. But it’s not like he cares about the numbers on the scale anyway, he just happens to care more about getting that high than getting fed.  _ Keep your composure until you can game the system,  _ he reminds himself, keeping his complaining at a good medium level in order to not raise any suspicion that he’s either doing  _ too good  _ and is up to something, or doing so bad that FRIDAY’s protocols need reinforcing. Either way, he’s angling everything so that things’ll be in his favor later. 

Tony and Peter spend more and more time in the workshop together to keep the kid occupied and less likely to sit and stew in anxiety, but what the man doesn’t know is that he’s playing right into Pete’s hand. The man seems a bit more relaxed around him, which is a big fucking mistake if he’s ever seen one, obviously. Well, it’s not like he’s expecting Peter to have an entire personality built around  _ fake recovery,  _ manufactured specifically to seem like he’s making just the right amount of progress.  _ I didn’t do that before, so why would they suspect me to play the long game  _ now _?  _ He’s been working on  _ personal  _ projects in the corner of the lab for a few weeks, assuring everyone that he’s just tinkering to keep his hands busy. They don’t really question it, and since FRIDAY hasn’t alerted them that he’s up to something, they don’t see it coming.

At the end of the summer, he finally finishes getting the last screws in place, putting the plan into motion. He sends a message to Tessa by fax, everyone’s been so busy monitoring his phone and internet activity that they’ve completely overlooked that dusty old device left in one of the storage rooms no one uses. He makes a few changes so that the message he sends goes directly to Tess’ email, and hopes she has the time to read it, decide to meet up,  _ and  _ bring the goods to the suggested meeting spot by the time Peter’s at the next step of his plan. He just wants to get shitfaced on whatever she’s got at the moment, his junkie brain doesn’t really care  _ what  _ he gets high on at this point.  _ I just want that rush, that detachment from reality.  _ He isn’t picky. Being clean is so fucking boring, and at this point he’s willing to snort cocaine if it makes a difference, it’s just like crushing pills, right?

He’s figured out that some things are too embarrassing to warrant details, so in order to get away from Tony he does his best attempt at desperation, explaining that he’s had too much coffee and needs to go to the bathroom  _ right the fuck now  _ if he wants to avoid shit running down his leg. It works, Mister Stark spluttering something behind his own mug, granting Peter a few moments alone in the bathroom. He’s already used the clandestine handprint emulator to copy one of his mentor’s prints off of that same coffee mug onto a slip of clear plastic when he wasn’t looking, smuggling it into one of his shirt sleeves. Peter’s told FRIDAY earlier that he’s going to a spontaneous NA meeting and that he doesn’t want anyone to know about it and, undoubtedly, worry for nothing. So he asks her to lie for him, to say that he’s still in the bathroom with shit coming out one end or the other, it doesn’t really matter. As long as she keeps the cavalry from looking for him long enough for him to leave the premises undetected, it’s  _ gucci. _

FRIDAY, running through the numbers she’s got filed away, concludes that Peter has, indeed, gone to the meetings 100 percent of the times he’s claimed to be on his way there in the past, which means that he’s statistically  _ also  _ telling the truth now.  _ Oh, poor fucking FRIDAY, only looking at probability and not the  _ context.  _ Even  _ I  _ wouldn’t let me go if I were her. And they call  _ her _ smart. _ Her disabling the smart watch because he makes the AI think it’d be an infringement on his privacy to monitor him during the meeting is frankly too  _ easy. _

He plays the role of someone with explosive diarrhea long enough to get past a baffled Happy Hogan, wondering what the _hell_ he’s doing hobbling around like that, and proceeds by placing the fake handprint strip over the scanner to Mister Stark’s private and unmonitored elevator, effectively giving himself the escape route he needs, straight down to the equally secluded garage. He’s gone through this step a hundred times in his mind already, and knows that the best way of getting out of here is to steal the hotrod red Lamborghini, and thanks _whomever needs to be thanked_ for the fact that the car is automatic, which makes taking off in it slightly less of a hassle since he doesn’t actually know how to _drive properly._ Knowing Mister Stark’s methods well by now, Peter correctly guesses that the vehicle’s combined GPS and tracking system is located where the glove compartment would otherwise be, and snips off the strategically placed cables by biting into them with his teeth. _Gross, but it fucking works._

The engine revs to life, and he’s whizzing out of the garage.  _ Bingo.  _ The abandoned parking garage he’s  _ hopefully  _ meeting Tess at is only minutes away, because he isn’t a fucking  _ idiot.  _ He knows that time is of the essence,  _ if I’m going to pull this off I have to buy and pop the pills before anyone gets the chance to stop me. _ He hits the slope leading down into the  _ other  _ parking garage and the wheels skid on the ground as he hits the brakes and slams to a stop across three different parking spaces, finally on the right level.

He’s got 200 dollars crumpled up in a fist while exiting the ride, hands clammy and shaking. He’s somehow managed to put some money to the side, and he’s now about to reap the fruits of his frankly  _ annoying  _ labor. When he rounds one of the pillars that remind him too much of that fucking  _ wareshouse dropping,  _ he’s surprised to see that the person meeting him isn’t Tessa.  _ Who the fuck is this fucking  _ guy  _ waiting for me?  _ What the fuck? “Who the fuck are  _ you?”  _ he asks, getting straight to the point. Because every second spent not getting his well-deserved fix is more time for Mister Stark to realize he’s missing and stop him from getting high. “Honestly,” he goes on, “I don’t really give a shit who you are, as long as you’ve got the stuff.” 

“Your chick doesn’t want to deal the kind of pills I do, man, but I’ve got you.” The guy holds up his hand, ready to greet Peter, and all he can think is  _ why the fuck won’t that slag hook me up?  _ “But as I said, don’t worry about it. I’ll get you whatever you need, heard you wanted something stronger.”

“So she doesn’t fuck with, like,  _ coke  _ or whatever?” Peter asks, not really sure what  _ something stronger  _ actually means, and the other guy just shakes his head and starts opening the backpack he’s got slung over one shoulder. Peter’s mouth starts watering at the thought of all the good shit that might be in that bag, just waiting for him to cradle it to his chest and cherish it like it’s his fucking first born.

“Nah, she’s got a  _ moral compass,  _ she calls it, which is bullshit when she’s peddling addy and xanny to  _ teenagers  _ in the first place _. I _ just accept that it’s a shady business and don’t really draw a line. Plus, it’s fucking  _ dope  _ for business,” he says with a chuckle. “What you  _ really  _ want is what’s called black tar heroin, or something cheap laced with fentanyl, it’s  _ forty times  _ stronger than heroin and a fraction of the price. Tess said you’ve got fucking superhuman tolerance or something and keep running her supply dry, so if you want a good high that don’t fuck around, this is the shit right here. Coke’s nice and all, but it ain’t got nothing on this. There’s a  _ reason  _ it’s called Jackpot.”

_ Fentanyl.  _ He thinks he’s heard that name somewhere before, but he doesn’t really know what it is. And black tar? What’s tar got to do with anything? No-name Guy pulls out a familiar crinkly zip pouch filled with baby blue pills, followed by another bag filled with black sludge.  _ It doesn’t look particularly appetizing or whatever, but I guess that’s where it got the name. _ “How much for 200 bucks?” Peter asks while waving the bills, and the guy practically  _ chokes. _

“You want to buy _200 dollars_ of fentanyl and black tar? God damn. Alright, but be careful, man. Less than a single milligram of these pills could kill you even _with_ your tolerance, so go easy. Cut the pills in halves, and then halve _those._ You got that?” Peter snatches the pill bag and hands over the ball of cash, getting the black soap bar looking thing in the other hand. He nods, listening but kind of _over_ the warnings at this point, wanting to ditch the car and go somewhere Mister Stark and whomever else won’t check. No-name guy rifles through the holy backpack some more. “Here, you’ll need some clean needles to use with the H. And here’s some Narcan, too, since you’ve never fucked with this shit before, bro. Free of charge.” The little slim nasal spray isn’t something he thinks he’s ever seen. “In case you or the people you pop the goodies with take too much. I gotta take care of my clientele so they come back, don’t I? You just spray the contents up the overdosing person’s nose to reverse the effects.”

Nodding in thanks to the guy and heading for the exit, he tries to think up a plan through the excitement of finally having drugs again. It’s cold out tonight, the summer New York heat finally giving way to rain, so he needs to find a good spot under a bridge or some shit. Somewhere he can’t be seen from the sky when  _ Tony and Company  _ inevitably come looking for him, but it’s also got to be somewhere that isn’t a hotspot for others up to the same fucked up shit. The dude sort of implied that it’s not really possible to give  _ yourself  _ the miracle spray when ODing,  _ duh, _ and Peter should probably have someone with him when administering the drugs, but he doesn’t want to attract any attention to himself. He’s shaking, out of relief from knowing that euphoria is only moments away, but also because  _ this is who I am now, I’m about to put a fucking needle into my arm. _

The stairs take him out of the parking garage and up to a side street on ground level, and he thanks his lucky stars that he’s spent so much time swinging in these parts of Manhattan, so he’s got a good idea of the penthouse apartments that only recently got done refurbishing and aren’t back on the market yet for another few weeks.  _ Perfect.  _ He scores an empty coke can and a shitty lighter near a dumpster before making his way up there, and decides that at least the needle’s clean, so it’s probably fine.  _ Probably.  _ He’s a good enough climber to get up to the top of the skyscraper in record time, protected by the dark, and a good enough lockpick to make the glass doors leading from the pool area and inside a piece of cake. It’s only been ten minutes since taking off in the Lambo, which means that he’s been fake-shitting for fifteen.  _ Hm. I should probably hurry the fuck up and take these drugs. If they haven’t started combing through the city grid for me by now, they’re certainly  _ about  _ to. _

Peter doesn’t care to wipe the sweat off his face or take off his sneakers; climbing into the ridiculously huge bed in the master suite, the only thing that matters is finding something to crush these baby blues under so he can snort them up to the high heavens, or wherever it is that he goes when doped out of his fucking mind. But what’s the best plan of action here? Should he snort or inject first? How  _ do  _ you even inject? A quick Google search on the desktop computer in the penthouse’s ridiculous study (because, honestly,  _ fuck  _ anyone tracing him, and who installs a computer when no one’s living here yet?) tells him that the vein he wants to hit in his arm is right beneath the surface, and he apparently doesn’t want to go too deep and inject into muscle tissue.  _ Alright.  _ Heating up the heroin shouldn’t be too difficult, right? He rifles around for that flattened coke can back in the bedroom, putting a chunk of the soap-looking sludge on the bottom surface, perfect for heating it up and pulling it up into the syringe he’s taken the safety cap off of. It looks disgusting going into the plastic cylinder, but he tries to not focus on all the other gross shit that’s in there.

Putting the filled syringe down, he snags a marble figurine off a side table and gets to work smashing the pills into a fine powder.  _ Smashing pills under a figurine? I’ve come full circle.  _ And yeah, the guy  _ did  _ warn him about taking too much, but it’s not like he knows about Peter being enhanced in the first place, and this is the  _ only fucking chance he’s got  _ to get high, potentially  _ ever again,  _ with the strict surveillance he’s under all hours of the day. He knows that after this, he’s  _ never  _ going to be left alone, never going to be trusted to not do drugs.  _ It’s time to get my fucking money’s worth, or I’ll just be wasting this chance to get fucking obliterated. This is all I’ve been thinking about ever since getting caught, so I can’t be a  _ pussy  _ about it!  _ The useless watch still adorns his wrist, and he knows that the data from his relapse will be a free-for-all whenever he’s hauled back to the tower and the timepiece reactivated, but he can’t really find it in himself to care.  _ So what if it gets a little tight to breathe and I start shaking? It’s not like I’ll even really  _ notice  _ at that point.  _

He shapes the dollar bill he’s saved in his pocket  _ for weeks _ just for this purpose, and scoops the powder into a pile. The trip of a lifetime, this is it. Pete’s trained eye thinks the pile might look slightly big for just a few milligrams, especially if it’s more potent than he’s used to, but  _ fuck it.  _ Whatever happens happens. And it’s not like he’s familiar with these pills anyway, so the size of the mound of powder tells him  _ fuck-all. _ He starts dividing it up into lines. If he needs it, he’ll just reach over to the nightstand and somehow administer the Narcan on himself or something.  _ Or not.  _ He’s also not so keen on being around for the consequences, so he figures that being blissed out of his fucking mind is a pretty dope way to go.  _ Literally. _ If this really is the last hurrah followed by a lifetime of sobriety, Peter’s really fucking sure which outcome he’s  _ hoping for.  _

He finally rolls up the bill, takes one last second to listen for the sound of the familiar repulsors in case Tony’s near  _ (thank fucking god he isn’t, yet) _ and then he’s bending down over the powder with the roll up to his nose, pressing the other nostril closed and inhaling. Sniffling to get it all into his bloodstream properly, he then grabs the needle, and inserts it vertically under the skin near the crook of his elbow.  _ I have to be quick before the pills hit and I can’t find the vein properly.  _ He pulls the plunger out a bit, drawing some blood, and pushes it back into his body along with the black tar. He doesn’t know what to expect for once, and he finds that he doesn’t really care at this point, it’s  _ exciting _ . Mixing different drugs together is way more dangerous and risky than the effects of taking them separately, and he knows this. He’s been mixing uppers and downers for months, and is fairly certain that the staggering amount is what did him in that last time he used. But Peter is frantic with the same need now, almost a compulsion, and he just wants the high,  _ any  _ high. One last time.

_ And it’s-, it’s...good? _ Yeah.  _ Real  _ fucking good. He has barely let go of the needle sticking out of his skin, and Peter already feels like he’s levitating. His ears are ringing. And sure, he’s also feeling like he’s floating on his back in a swimming pool due to the copious amounts of sweat that’s once again soaking through his clothes, trying to take a full breath, but it’s a-okay. Really. The needle might still be in his arm, a trail of blood running down to his fingers and dripping off, but it’s fine. What’s a bit more annoying is that  _ ants _ have somehow made their way into the bed, using his body as a highway.  _ What the hell?  _ They were here this whole time? He doesn’t have the energy to think more about it, more interested in melting and blending in with the covers. There’s artwork on the ceiling, looking like a butterfly that’s slowly dancing and morphing into the spider emblem.  _ Weird.  _ Paintings don’t usually move, but it’s looking reminiscent of one of Stark’s holograms, so it’s hologram paint? Glowing and twisting into new shapes above him.  _ I feel like a butterfly, in the cocoon for so long and now I’m finally seeing the bright colors.  _ He’s twisting in and out of realms, himself. 

The pool full of ants and soft linen fills up some more, and he realizes that he’s got to swim if he wants to stay afloat. “H’ppy bir’ay Raven,” he mumbles in his haze, finding it  _ so funny  _ how she can’t swim, floaties and all. Because the swimming. It’s a good thing he can still reach the bottom with his toes.  _ I can swim, can’t I?  _ Surely, he went to the kiddie pool as a baby? He can’t remember, he can’t fucking  _ remember.  _ As soon as he tries pushing off with his toes in the waves, a heavy weight pulls him under the surface, stealing his breath away as he’s pulled into the murky depths.

There’s a hoarse whine that sounds like it’s coming from a wounded animal, and Peter wants to tell the ants to keep fucking  _ quiet,  _ doesn’t want Tony to hear them. Because what if Tony doesn’t like them? He gets salty water into his airwaves when trying to tell them to zip it, the ants getting sucked in, too, and it isn’t fun anymore. Because he’s got ants on the inside and they’re stealing all the air away from him. He doesn’t know how long he’s been bobbing in the waves, doesn’t know when the one thing that can pull him out clattered to the floor? His fingers are detaching themselves from his body one by one, the nerve endings saying  _ fuck it  _ as his hands fade into nothingness. His feet follow suit, until he’s just a chest full of ants, an endless spiral of gasping for breaths he’ll never get. 

Peter tries to move his tongue as best as he can but there are ants in his mouth now too, spilling out onto the bed sheets, chunky and rapidly growing cold against his chin. His tongue feels too big, throat shrinking more by the second.  _ That’s-, that’s kind of gross,  _ he thinks as the bed starts spinning violently. They start creeping around his lips too, his ant friends, giving him a tingly feeling with their little insect legs. The sensations fade in and out, or maybe that’s  _ him?  _ He doesn’t know. He can’t see properly, can’t move or breathe or lift his limbs while simultaneously feeling like he’s falling out of the bed, and part of him wants his dad to make it all stop.  _ Dad,  _ gleaming in the light before stripping off the metal casing and putting the suave glasses in place. Morphing into uncle Ben and back again.  _ I just want it to stop. Anything, I’ll do it.  _ In his barely-conscious state, he notes that the ants are making a choked off sound, like they’re snoring, and he’d be annoyed if he had the oxygen in his brain to spare.  _ This is no time for the ants to doze off on me! They need to be awake in order to meet dad! _

  
The levitating feeling from before is back now, and there’s a  _ crack  _ from within him as he’s going higher and higher towards the ceiling.  _ Or is the ceiling lowering? _ Some of the ants on his back are growing as his head lolls from side to side, without his consent. They’re making burn marks on his spine as his knee joints move.  _ I’m running? Why am I running?  _ He’s collapsing in on himself while the cosmos itself simultaneously folds and collapses around his very being. He keeps fruitlessly struggling for air.  _ Dad dad dad  _ he chants like a mantra as the only way to drown out the noise of the ants. The ants then move over to his left side, responding by rearranging his detached limbs without his say, keeping them bent as he shakes violently. His nose might be stinging but he can’t be sure.  _ Still beats being sober  _ is the last thing he thinks before the sickening, warm ants crawl out of his gut and clog up his throat.


End file.
